


Triangle, Circle, Stick

by remaya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack Treated Siriusly, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Sane Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, aka Plot, characters listed in approximate order of appearance, feelings about the Avengers are expressed, harry ruining Tom's BAMF reputation one oblivious second at a time, if you didn’t laugh i am pun-impressed, please enjoy my crazy brainchild, universe jumping not time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remaya/pseuds/remaya
Summary: MoD!Harry Potter, saving-people-thing intact, meets Tom Marvolo Riddle in the not-yet-Avengers’ New York a few decades after the wizarding war.Or, the one where Tom is tired of Harry’s terrible fashion sense (hint: rags), furniture is destroyed with great prejudice, and tomarry’s over-fluffed shenanigans with death eaters and Earth’s Mightiest Heroes can be pried from the author’s cold dead fingers. Also, plot.ON HIATUS





	1. Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter does not exist. Then, he does. Confusion ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so there’s a lot of Harry-centric plot in this one, e.g. a lot of setting up and POV jumps. but don’t worry we have humor and fluff and more peeps coming up soon :D because what else would anyone expect from me. oh right, nobody knows what to expect because this is my fiRST PUBLISH ack now the secret is out

1 Who?

_2011_

**Hp Hp Hp**

The press and stink of city nearly bowls him over as he stumbles through.Behind him, the last of the tear in the fabric of reality knits back together. To Harry Potter’s parched core, the magical drain feels like wringing coarse sand from every cell until his body is drier than a husk of a shed basilisk skin.

(Perhaps he had been a teensy bit hasty, rushing to escape his home universe as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Yet he cannot bring himself to truly regret what he did. He thinks that even _Draco_ would have understood, had he been alive. If that didn’t convey the severity of the situation, nothing would.)

Firm in his dislike of the throng, Harry sidesteps a rushing pedestrian flinging a backpack around like a demented hippogriff and wrinkles his nose. The movement sends him listing dangerously close to the borders of a road - paving endeavour, nearly knocking over a traffic cone. He keeps walking. 

He should - clothes. They had burned up in-between the two universes, only a thick coating of magic saving Harry’s skin (literally), a side effect Death conveniently did not mention before Harry made the first rip.

 _I tried to warn you_ , Death rasps at him petulantly, though quietly. Turns out that preserving a living being for any extended period of time through inter-universe passageways could tire even great beings like Death. _Though those hideous cloth coverings you call clothes didn’t deserve mercy. In this case, haste makes good waste._

Harry, unfortunately, is in no state of mind to fully appreciate Death’s sage sayings. He doesn’t have the magic for a single _lumos_ right now, let alone enough to conjure new clothes.

There’s a weird weightless sensation, then pavement. Harry blinks at the concrete his face is resting on. Oh. He rolls over- colors blur together, which answers whether his glasses survived (they did not), and did he mention, petrol stinks. The thought of getting up is a bad one. He relaxes into the pavement. 

Everything aches; his eyes slide shut. The ground reverberates with passing footsteps- quick, hurried- and the rumbling of automobiles.

The last time he got this sloshed was- was- he can’t remember, there’s an echo of frizzy hair and raucous laughter, and he would giggle too but he’s not got the energy, and he hasn’t touched a single drop of alcohol for years.

More footsteps and a thud, dangerously close to his face. Harry curls away from the pressure on his shoulder and ignores the chilling laughter in the back of his head.

**Pp Mp Mp**

It’s evening rush hour in New York, and a boy is sprinting home ahead of his aunt with a backpack full of Syrian pastries. 

Every month the bakery owner, Chava, gives extra stock to passerby on ‘Sampling Day’ with her not-husband Ahmad scowling inside the shop. Ahmad hates being behind the counter but despite the bakery’s popularity, the couple refuses to hire beyond themselves, and their daughter is too young to work. Chava likes to tell the boy in a thick accent that she’s not running a business- she just likes to bake.

Despite the recent excitement of the Stark Expo, or maybe because of it ( _IRON MAN!!!_ he internally screams, again), the boy is high on energy. 

He practically flies by a naked man.

Wait.

What?

The boy skids to a stop and turns in confusion to see the man- yes, naked- collapse onto the pavement. He’s definitely not imagining things. 

“Peter!” His aunt draws near, breathing heavily, as Peter ventures shallowly into the mouth of an alleyway. She spots the frail figure on the ground. “Don’t- strangers.”

“Auntie May, what’s wrong with him?” Before she can stop him, Peter drops his backpack, squats, and pokes a worryingly thin shoulder. It flinches away from his touch.

For a split second May considers covering eleven year old Peter’s eyes, a futile effort as he’s seen everything already. Then the man turns over, pale and weak and sickly looking, revealing a face barely out of his teens, and May cannot in good conscience just leave him there.

“I don’t know,” May replies to Peter’s question. She shrugs off her coat to preserve the man’s modesty and Peter’s innocence. His pale skin is scarred, unmarred by fresh injury, yet he is in apparent pain. “Sir?” she tries. Thick black lashes flutter once, revealing a sliver of dazed, bright green, then close.

“Shouldn’t we call 911?” Peter asks. May shushes him. May knows best so he swallows the eager babble bubbling up in his throat.

“‘M H’rry,” the man- teen?- slurs. “N’h’spta’.”

Peter looks on in fascination as May squats as well. 

“Alright. Harry. No hospital?”

Harry nods, vigorously, messy hair flopping around. His expression belies his immediate regret at the action.

“Are you drunk? High?”

“N’h’spat,” he insists.

“Yes, no hospital. But I need to know what is paining you to help you.” May doesn’t tell him that she had dialed 911 right after taking her coat off. In his condition he probably needs some kind of professional attention, and if she has to go against his wishes to get that for him, then so be it. For the benefit of the 911 operator, she says, “I don’t see any obvious injuries, but you collapsed out of nowhere, you can barely talk, and you’re twitching randomly. Something is clearly wrong, and it’s no simple hangover. So is it poison? Sickness?”

“Don’need hel’. S- slee’.”

“So you were going to sleep out here. Naked. In this condition.”

Harry’s head turns away stiffly, eyes still closed. He mutters something about ‘d’ment’ hipp’griffs, jus’ much troub’ as drac’.’

An ambulance arrives. By the time medics load Harry’s body on to a stretcher, he’s unconscious; the least May can do to apologize is to leave something kind for Harry when he wakes.

**D Nf Nf**

Aunt May and Peter Parker step out of the picture, heading home one pastry box lighter, one mystery heavier (Peter will absently wonder what the strange man was trying to say at the end for several years to come). 

Out there, Heimdall and and other watchers sit up (or merely straighten, in Heimdall’s case) in alarm. Only when this universe’s Death takes notice of the inexplicable newcomer does Harry’s Death scrounge up some energy and pay some visits, reassuring that yes, he is still responsible only for the living beings from his original universe, and yes, Harry’s multiverse Refugee paperwork has already been filed with the Boss- the Boss being the great entity, the overarching Death, who knows delegation like it’s his only job. It basically is, besides being a menacing nightmare.

The organization of relevance now, as it is stepping into the picture, is SHIELD. Not the Super Happy Iguanas Experiencing Lasting Defects. Nor the Screaming Head Impossibly Earning Lucky Dollars.

This is the SHIELD in which Director Nick Fury is rudely awakened by Agent Maria Hill knocking on his office door at seven pm.

He hasn’t slept properly for some time, partly due to the whole ‘find something to keep Tony Stark alive from palladium poisoning on short notice and then give it to him’ debacle, and now the Asgardian aliens thing. It was really a shame to let go of his epic dream. 

So maybe he’s kind of upset in addition to a healthy dose of apprehensive at the extra lines on Hill’s face.

“This had better be good,” he snaps, with extra energy so it seems less like he had been dozing off on his desk mere seconds before.

Hill eyes him but doesn’t comment, even though he can feel her judging. Smart woman. “Director.” If Fury didn’t know better he would say Hill was hesitating as she handed him a thin file. “An unknown appeared today in Queens at 0925 Zulu with no records and no clothes. He was caught on security from-“

Fury skims the report as Hill’s words register. Then he valiantly loses to the urge to slam his head against the file. It’s good stress relief so he does it again.

“It’s always the damned unknowns,” he mutters into the beige folder. It’s boring, innocuous, like he sometimes wished one day could be. He peels the folder off of his face and nearly whines to the only person other than Coulson who won’t sell him out when he drops his composure. “This shit? And New Mexico?”

“The two incidents seem to be unrelated. The new entity made no mark upon arrival other than two minutes of foreign radiation partially captured by Jane Foster and Erik Selvig, the pattern of which is remarkably different in comparison to use of the ‘Bifrost.’” At Fury’s groan, Hill adds, “I’ll put a team on the new case as soon as ‘Harry’ wakes up in the hospital.”

“Thank you- hospital?”

Agent Hill doesn’t pause at the door. “Read the report.”

**G Hp Hp**

Agent Gopher squints at the feed from the hospital’s security camera, looking into a glass window from the hallway in an awkward angle. 

She can make out a thin form on the bed, covered by a sterile blanket. Above the breathing apparatus attached to a young, pale face is a mop of dark, messy hair. The doctors had tried their best to help ‘Harry,’ treating his symptoms, but it was still anyone’s guess what the cause of his condition was in the first place.

With a grainy shot from another certain security camera held next to the screen, the similarities are undeniable. This is the target who appeared mysteriously in Queens at 5:25 pm the day before. He has already woken once, incoherent on pain medication, but without hostility, so it should be about time to send someone in to try diplomacy.

A short time later, a team waits outside of the hospital door, out of sight of the windows. The hospital bill for ‘Harry’ has been paid for in excess, SHIELD ready to snatch up the unknown for questioning, so the regular medical staff mostly ignores the agents.

One female is giving herself a silent pep talk; she is the one slated to confront ‘Harry’, and this is her chance to Get It Right after the near disaster that was Captain America sprinting into Times Square.

When ‘Harry’ awakens abruptly, Gopher watches carefully for the perfect time to send in the agent poised by the door. Except.

Gopher’s feed shatters into darkness.

Gopher accesses the comms to tell the team something‘s not right; the line fizzles into static.

While Gopher panics, on the other side of the feed Harry Potter wonders what broke to cause a wave of power so large he was jolted unceremoniously out of unconsciousness. _Death?_

The presence settles over him, chilly and familiar. _Bifrost. Worry not. I am busy, though, getting your paperwork through. You know I had to lie to my partner to get him to stop bothering me?_ And before Harry can retort, Death leaves.

Death may omit information at times, citing self preservation from Fate, but he could never lie. Harry doesn’t worry about weird breaking things. But he is awake now, so he should be worrying about the commotion outside his door. His glass window is utterly useless, taking up so much space yet not showing him much of anything of what the heck is going on.

Pushing past the achy dry feeling that tells him he overexerted his magic (again), Harry pulls muggle hospital stuff out and off of his body and rolls out of bed. Cool, sterilized air hits his nostrils and his privates... ah, hospital gown.

There’s a thump at the door- body, his Auror brain tells him- and he grasps at his chest where a dark pendant winks into existence, attached to an equally shadowy chain around his neck. 

Harry just barely pulls the triangle from the distinctive shape in time to cover himself with the invisibility cloak it expands into before the door opens and a heavy boot appears. An eyeful of the honed and armed body that pauses in the doorway tells Harry that the man is most certainly not medical personnel; his metal left arm alone looks about as harmless as a lethifold, not to mention that look in those icy blue eyes as they scan the room efficiently.

A professional, then.

Harry inches around the _really tall and dangerous_ guy and scoots out of the doorway. Merlin is he short, and ~~small~~ compact dammit, which would be more of a sore point if it wasn’t making his life a hell of a lot easier right about now. Because he really has no idea of what is going on.

A puff of relieved breath escapes Harry as he steps surreptitiously out into the hall. The scary guy twitches towards him- _crazy instincts_ , his brain screams at him- but sees nothing, so continues towards the bed.

 _Um, Death?_ Harry reaches out, staring at the black clad bodies piled below the window and the dismantled guns and muggle tech on the floor. _I don’t have magic to spare._

 _Must I do_ everything _now-_ Death pauses as he takes in the scene. Then sighs, less of a sound and more of a crackling in the back of Harry’s mind. _Let me guess. Prop them up so they don’t get sore when they wake up, without alerting the man in the next room?_

 _You got it in one. I’m leaving. Thanks love!_ Harry imagines miming a kiss at his companion.

 _I don’t know why I put up with you, cheeky,_ Death grumbles, even though they both know why. As the unconscious bodies sit up neatly in the background, lining up silently against the wall, he adds, _also, the lady who called 911 earlier left you a box of pastries. You should pick them up. Your hospital bills are paid for by the way._

_Are they sweet?_

_... yes._

_Yay!- who paid for my bills though? Also, I have bills??? I never asked for them! In fact, I remember asking for the complete opposite!_

This time, Death’s sigh sweeps through Harry’s entire brain. _I’ll tell you outside. The guy in the room just found that your sheets are still warm and he’s coming out. Aaand... he saw the moved bodies._

_Eep!_

**Hp Hp Hp**

Out on the street, now officially avoiding two shady organizations- the Sunny Hippo Investment Exercising Leadership Dilemma and the Hot Yam Do Rad Awesomeness- Harry holds tight to the folds of his cloak. _Where should we go?_

A minor breakdown, map problems, and many dodged pedestrians later, Harry and Death stand- well, Harry stands, Death just kind of... hovers- before the Woolworth Building. It’s a large, detailed thing, (neo-Gothic, Hermione would say,) really quite beautiful.

Harry carefully refuses to panic at the fact that MACUSA has no magical signature whatsoever.

So he keeps looking. There has to be some kind of wizarding presence in America, right? And even if there isn’t, Gringotts is the wizarding bank of the world- it would definitely have a base in America.

The problem with this is not that every branch of Gringotts probably hates him across universes for that _one time with the dragon, oops,_ but that the building that should be hiding Gringotts of America is just a normal bank. No wards. And, more astonishingly, no wizards.

Harry finally pauses his frantic search at four am. Come to think of it, once Harry pays attention, the constant hum of magic in his old world is absent in this one. It’s not completely quiet, though- there’s something else. Harry is sure that were he more clear-headed something important would occur to him.

As it is, he can barely process that magic probably does not exist here. The community back home, before ~~he failed them~~ it had been destroyed by muggles, it had been his entire life. Hogwarts saved him from the Dursleys, and even though blindly following Dumbledore’s cunning plan and fighting Voldemort was tough, he found a family.After the final battle Harry revolved around Auror work and then teaching and training in the Auror department. He was needed there; he knew his place there; aside from the occasional hero-worship, the DMLE repelled the press.

His friends worried when he drifted apart, especially after his amicable breakup with Ginny, but he just threw himself further into his work. Entrenched himself into the safety of the magical world far beyond merely ‘saving’ it.

It had been all he knew. It had blown up in everyone’s faces.

And it doesn’t exist here.

_— Harry. Harry. Harry. Harry. Harry. Ha-_

_YOU ARE_ NOT _HELPING, DEATH!_

_Sorry. I just wanted to remind you that you have pastries and you haven’t eaten in several Earth-days. Your body requires sustenance to recover from magical exhaustion. Sulk later._

Harry would scream some more, but the box does smell heavenly. And if he’s ever been good at anything, it’s been compartmentalization.

He sits on the marble steps of the offending bank, ignoring the twinging through his sore body, sticking to the far side to avoid being jostled by anyone who can’t see through invisibility cloaks. That is to say, everyone.

As he begrudgingly opens the sticky paper box, a tingle starts in his fingertips. He brushes it off even though it feels kind of like a weak version of a magic transfusion St. Mungos had tried on him, the perfect test subject who would always come back to life. Maybe he’s finally hallucinating.

Okay. So the tingle spreads through his body as soon as he takes a bite. And his mouth is numbing. Harry doesn’t even register the taste of the pastry past the rich, dark flavor of... Really, what is this, some kind of magical-

Magical? Magical residue?

_Now you’re just getting your hopes up._

_Shut the snark and help me track this._

**G G G**

“You lost him.”

Agent Gopher winces at the Director’s disappointment over the call. His people and some medical personnel are knocked out, thankfully not dead, though they could easily have been. No one knows what happened because security was disabled and cameras were shot out for good measure.

“And somebody else got him.” The Director sighs heavily. “Because there has been no trace of him since.”

“That is correct, Director.”

Gopher has the sudden impression that the Director is screaming internally, something along the lines of ‘yOU LOST HIM?!’ despite his outwardly calm demeanor.

“Dismissed, Agent Gopher. Thank you for your work. Take some time off.”

As Gopher signs out with a sinking feeling in his gut, failure weighing heavily and worrying for his agents, he hears the Director say, “Get Barton and Coulson to New York from New Mexico and tell Romanov to haul ass ASAP. Time sensitive.”

Agent Hill’s voice responds, “She’s still on Stark in Cali-“

“As soon as she’s done, then. I don’t really care what you have to do. Just get them there.“

**BONUS: what was Fury dreaming about?**

Nick Fury was speeding epically (precariously) down a pockmarked road, with hands relaxed and confident on the wheel. Explosions, epic explosions, exploded behind him, epically, as he crashed through a stack of rotting timber and burst, epically of course, through the other side.

He grinned, bringing his eyes back to the road- who wouldn’t turn around in their seat to watch epic fireballs? Fury switched to an even more precarious position, left hand on the wheel, his right arm thrown epically (did he say that yet?) around the slim shoulders of the person sitting next to him. He risked a look- Maria Hill’s loyally neutral judgement bored into him as she peeled his arm off.

Fury reclaimed his vast dignity with dignity (epically) (of course) by overtaking a truck that tried to pass him. He scowled at it, dishing out a few choice words. It was longer than his own pickup. A direct insult! He breezily bypassed obstacles and elongated his own vehicle into a sleek limousine. It was now longer than the truck, which had shortened to a ridiculous length.

haHA! After suitably besmirching the truck’s name, he said, “This is why we stick to my plan,” delivering the one liner with gusto and none of the weighty pace of real life. Wait, real life? What kind of a thought was that? This was so real.

He would prove how real it was. He leaned to the right and kissed his trench coat passionately. She screeched at him to keep his eyes on the road when he was breaking traffic laws, banging against his head in an atrocious knocking sound, and he woke abruptly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot happened. here’s the Big Point:  
> Harry: death pls help i don’t know why i always have stalkers i thought i left them all behin-- i mean, i thought they were all dead
> 
> Extras:  
> * One guess for who the guy in the hospital was, wrong answers shall be locked in the (virtual) stocks and (virtually) pelted with rotten fruit  
> * Why was Harry so sensitive to magical residue when most wizards can’t sense auras? Explanation: he lacked magic so badly that any magic felt like bricks to his system.  
> * Harry’s whole master of death thing will be explained. Don’t worry :)  
> * Yes, i do bring up a lot of small things. Yes, they will be important later.  
> * Updates: weekly at most (for the summer)
> 
> Up next:  
> Prepare to be disappointed... with Harry’s Horrible, Terrible, No Good Very Bad Housekeeping. To be fair, he is chasing after magic while HYDRA and SHIELD are chasing after him. Also, people!


	2. Harry’s Horrible Housekeeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds a living space but neglects it and gets blood all over the floor :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously questioned whether i was hallucinating when i logged in. you’re all blessings!! Here’s an update to keep your mid-week game strong :D
> 
> On a more relevant note: introducing some plot, and finally Tom. We still have some setup to wade through before the fluff is possible :>

2 Harry’s Horrible Housekeeping

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry thinks that he’s getting ridiculously good at crossing roads.

He steps forward from the curb as soon as the automobile traffic light facing him turns green, shaving off those few seconds it takes for the walking signal to flick from red hand to person-shaped. The magical trail has forced him over so many white and black stripes (and sometimes, random routes nowhere near traffic signals) that even in the extra chaos of the big city Harry has it down to a science.

He studiously ignores his crowd problems, his sleepiness, and the ever-present parched ache of extreme magical exhaustion as he maneuvers so pedestrians don’t jostle the invisibility cloak, which he still hasn’t taken off. No need to give either Studious Healers In Excessive Loads of Drama or Hungry Yoga Dreamers Raving Angrily an excuse to run him down.

Speaking of which, Death still refuses to tell him anything about the organizations after him besides their acronyms and their apparently shady nature.

Harry might have hounded Death more about this had Death not been busy moping over his inability to help track the magic, ever since they realized that Death trying to sense the residue is kind of like trying to hear what somebody is whispering from the other side of a crowded club with pounding bass and ear splitting vocals. The only reason Harry is so sensitive to it (without the devices Aurors generally used) is because he lacks magic so badly.

It’s weird. Death speculates that even though he can generally gauge the magic in beings easily- because of magic‘s connection to the soul- as soon as the magic alone is left behind, it’s no longer in Death’s domain of power (souls). 

Whatever the reason is, the fact remains that Death cannot sense something that Harry feels clear as day.

Harry’s pretty sure Death still half-thinks that he’s hallucinating, especially given how Harry insists that he _recognizes_ the magic, somehow.

Anyway. By now Harry is long beyond the other side of the crosswalk. He ducks into an alleyway to take a tiny bite of one of the three remaining pastries from the box. Just to reorient himself with the distinct magical flavor attached to it (dark, rich, addictive)- not at all to briefly savor the familiar and therefore safe feeling it gives him. 

Harry keeps tracking. Earlier, he’d found the source of the pastries- a small bakery- but it was all muggle. The trail on foot picked up from there.

It’s around lunchtime when Harry halts abruptly. He twists out of the stream of foot traffic and scours his map for the street he’s on. Huh. Apparently he’s all the way in Hell’s Kitchen- on the other side of New York City from where he began. He does recall crossing the Queensboro bridge. Whoever he’s following is apparently all over the place.

The person in question is also leaking magic. Copiously- wherever he or she goes. It’s worrying Harry; leaving strong residue when one does nothing but pass by an area shows extreme lack of control. It’s been quite a long way for an injured person to walk, and there’s no tang in the magic to indicate a recent change in species, so the most likely reason is that the being has no training for or even _awareness_ of their magic.

Okay. Harry really needs to stop getting distracted. Every second he wastes is a second more for the already faint trail to fade. 

He stumbles over a curb. Then hastily shuffles out of the way of a bike at the last second.

... Transfiguring his glasses into existence earlier must have set him back more, magic-wise, than he thought.

 _You should rest,_ Death tries, halfheartedly, having been rebuffed at every inquiry for the entire morning. _Please, watching you makes_ me _exhausted._

_Okay._

Death startles, not expecting Harry to give up so easily when he’s been obstinate to continue. The infamous Potter stubbornness was infamous for a very good reason.

The thing is, it suddenly occurs to Harry that if he found hostility at the end of the trail, he would be confronting it with a flimsy hospital gown, an invisibility cloak- no other magic, and intense desires to simultaneously pass out and to lick whoever is giving off that delicious taste. Probably not a good idea- so he’s stopping.

 _You’ve been going in circles around Hell’s Kitchen for an hour now. It’s safe to say that whoever you’re looking for-_ if they exist, goes unspoken- _often travels by foot around this area. Settle down here, and pick up fresh trails later._

 _Okay._ Harry promptly turns into a convenient alleyway and plops down.

_Are you still awake? You’re starting to sound like a broken record._

The pastry box falls from Harry’s grip as it goes slack.

Death would sigh, if there was a way not to wake Harry with the crackling sound. He settles down to keep watch for his companion.

**Hp Hp Hp**

The next day the Potter luck strikes favorably. Death shouldn’t even be surprised at this point.

Harry wakes with lingering lethargy, reaching out to Death reflexively in a routine that reassures them of each others’ existence. _Is a millennia over yet?_

_No._

_Aww._

The day is almost over, but the lost time was worth it. Harry managed to regenerate enough magic to conjure clothes. The only one unhappy about this development is Death, who really doesn’t get Harry’s propensity for oversized _everything_ (except for shoes and undergarments)and not in a cute way, but in a way that’s ill-fitting and somewhat impractical.

Harry obviously _knows_ how clothes are supposed to work, having been ‘raised’ by the Dursleys; Death is unsure whether Harry makes the seams so strangely just to spite him or because his magic is fluctuating wildly (read: protesting) at being drained again so cruelly in a non life threatening situation.

Harry’s just happy to have shoes. And to chuck the horrendous hospital gown- there are, luckily, no security cameras in the area, so he can finally take off the invisibility cloak. He shrinks it down to a triangle and reattaches it to his Deathly Hallows pendant, completing the symbol.

He’s leaning over the dumpster, contemplating setting the offensive article of clothing on fire, when someone behind him clears their throat.

Harry would like to disclaim that he does Not Shriek Like Draco. Though he did bang his shin against the corner of the dumpster when he whipped around, holly and phoenix feather wand ripped from one of the two lines on his pendant and poking out of his sleeve.

_You totally screeched like a little girl._

_Shut up, Death. Besides, we’re not in the eighteen hundreds. If I screeched like Hermione did while that troll smashed the girl’s bathroom I’d be_ proud _of myself._

_Okay then. You totally screeched like the Malfoy boy, when you walked in on him wa-_

_Forbidden. Topic. Didn’t I tell you to shut up?_

_Like you could shut_ me _up._ Death cackles so loudly that even with the hand waving back and forth uncomfortably close to his face, Harry nearly misses the stranger say, “Hey, kid, you alright there?”

Harry twitches out of the daze he fell into while conversing in the back of his head. Ron had always told him that his eyes randomly glazing over was ‘bloody creepy.’ Teddy had called it ‘nightmare material.’

“Sorry,” he grins apologetically at the old man in front of him, “just lost in my thoughts.”

The man looks him up and down. Even hunched over he towers over Harry, white wisps of hair only adding height. Despite his age his eyes are bright and his voice is steady. “Were your thoughts in your stomach, by any chance? You could use some fattening up. And some clothes that fit.”

Harry winces reflexively. Molly Weasley had forcefully impressed upon him that insufficient self-care was a Criminal Insult.

Assuming the reaction was at the reprimanding tone, and with the state of the kid, the man could only conclude some sort of abuse or neglect. His grandson would be this boy’s age, had he still lived.

So he hurriedly softens his words and continues, “I’m Hurst. If you could help me lift this trash bag,” he gestures at the bulging one at his feet, “we could get some dinner in you.” Harry hesitates, so Hurst continues, “I own a restaurant with my wife. It’d be no trouble to feed you some leftovers.”

Well. Harry is in no state to turn down free food. And there’s no reason for a complete stranger to poison him- he’s not HYDRA or SHIELD, Death would have warned him if so, and it’s not like it would really matter if he were poisoned in the end.

He squeezes out a few drops of magic to lighten the load and, ignoring his screaming muscles, hauls the trash bag up and over the lip of the dumpster.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Ninety minutes after Harry finished ~~ravenously devouring every morsel set before him~~ eating his dinner _civilly_ , repairing some of his magical stores, he’s also repaired Hurst’s cash register, printer, and four dented pots with a surreptitious combination of wand-work and random technical know-how. Hurst’s wife Martha has joined them to poke at the broken air conditioning unit.

It gives a rattling cough while Hurst is checking the thermostat.

“I feel like I should be treating it for pneumonia instead of clogged dust,” Harry quips, bent over the vents with a flashlight.

Martha laughs. “Well, you can treat it for anything you’d like, as long as we can pay you.”

Harry fumbles for the now-falling flashlight, hoping in vain for his blush to be hidden by his hair.

Martha _squeals_. Well, it was worth a shot. (Death, had he been near, might have said something about always expecting less to get more pleasant surprises.) She turns to Hurst. “We should hire Harry so he can fix all the other broken things!”

Other broken things? _Hire_? Harry cranes his neck around to see Martha continue,

“We don’t have extra _money_ , per say, but he’s cheap, he could take the flat.” At Hurst’s drawn frown she says, “Oh, don’t give me that look. Our grandkid’s been dead ten years. We’re never going to use that shitty rundown first floor thing for anything else; no one savory will actually rent it if we can’t cough up the money to fix it. Harry‘s a good kid.” She presses on like she can feel her husband relenting. “He shouldn’t have to live on the streets, Hurst.”

Hurst turns to Harry with gravity. “What do you think?”

Harry closes his gaping mouth and weighs his options. No home, no food, no work without effort? Or free housing, food, and easy work, with the only drawback being an octogenarian obsessed with his ‘cuteness?’

He may be sluggish from magical exhaustion but it’s really no contest.

“As long as I can decide my own hours, I’ll get whatever you need fixed by your deadlines,” Harry agrees.

“ _Perfect_!“ Martha seems to notice that Harry’s about to fall over. “We can discuss details tomorrow. Get some sleep, okay, dear? Here’s the key, it’s the building to the left of this one. I’ll swap you for the flashlight.”

Harry blinks slowly at the flashlight clenched in his hand. He almost swears he can hear the joints creaking as he opens his fingers for the trade.

He doesn’t really remember much after that, besides thinking that musty wooden floor is actually pretty comfortable.

**Hp Hp Hp**

It was an idiotic idea to sleep on the floor. Harry wakes coughing up dust.

Death is laughing at him. Not only is it insulting, but the crackling inside his head is exacerbating his headache.

_Stop._

Death laughs harder.

 _Stop. Stop. I- nrrrgh._ Harry attempts to sit up. His body chickens out from fighting with gravity. Traitor.

 _I am no traitor,_ Death says with wounded dignity, _I only ditched your dinner last night because it was boring. And I needed to research and touch bases with my coworker._

_... I was referring to the meat sack that begrudgingly houses my soul, but yes, thank you for reminding me. Last night was very traitorous._

_I should never have said anything._

The door creaks open. Harry doesn’t move; his rolling around had put him in the perfect position to be blinded by the incoming morning light. He squints to see Hurst shadowed in the doorway.

“Harry? Kid?” Hurst steps in, pulls the curtains open for both windows, then spots Harry on the floor. His eyes widen, but before he can comment, Harry interrupts.

“I’m short, not young. Is that food? Please tell me that’s food.”

“Did you sleep on the floor? Please tell me you didn’t sleep on the floor.”

“I didn’t sleep on the floor,” Harry says flatly.

“It’s the strangest thing,” Hurst muses, “I don’t feel reassured.”

Harry pouts, as well as he can with half his face squished on the ground. “Was that really necessary? Reminding me of my failures?”

“I- I meant, I didn’t mean it that way-“

“Stop. No, Hurst, it was a joke, you don’t have to make that face. That’s not much better- it’s fine.” Hurst opens his mouth. Harry steamrolls over him. “Don’t apologize, okay? You and Martha have been really kind to me. I was just tired, and the floor was there. Convenient, comfortable. I’m just sore now. It seemed a good idea at the time...”

Hurst visibly relaxes by degrees as Harry rambles. Good. He couldn’t have random strangers worried over his wellbeing, now, it wouldn’t be sporting.

_You should have your own kind worried over your wellbeing. I can only do so much._

_Don’t be such a mom, Death, it doesn’t become you. And I thought my kind doesn’t exist in this world?_

_I mean, I meant-_

_Oh, no, not you, too._

_-living beings._

Death always makes such a big deal over such small things. It’s not like Harry could die- permanently, anyway. He ignores Death’s fretting in favor of propping himself against the wall (with Hurst’s help) and eating breakfast.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Over the next few weeks, Harry settles into a routine. A not-quite-routine. Okay, a really random schedule that has some common themes.

First. Hurst and Martha now have all sorts of neighbors looking for cheap fixes- not those kinds of fixes. Fixing things. Harry fixes them. Hurst and Martha have a small side business going and feed and house Harry in return, just as they said.

Second. This housing is less ‘bed and breakfast’ and more ‘please live here, and take care of the space yourself.’ Harry likes it. The first floor is convenient for going in and out at odd times, and he has an entire floor to himself, basically for free. He even added some nifty wards to throw off his stalkers. He doesn’t really take care of the flat, though. In fact, he doesn’t really have furniture. Because...

Third. He’s still tracking the magical trail. It’s annoying. Sometimes it’s fresh and then it disappears. Magical fluctuations, probably- and motor vehicles or subways always disrupt the trace. Knowing why it’s difficult doesn’t make Harry’s efforts any more fruitful. Although, he must admit, being so attuned to the flavor of the residue that he can recognize it while having magic is nice. His body thanks him by cooperating.

The nice thing about his unpredictable hours, besides doing whatever he likes whenever he likes within reason, is that everybody trying to track _him_ has been tied into knots. Death gives him regular updates, even though half the time they don’t make any sense. _The metal arm guy is still on you, I think he’s thawing out- it has been quite a while, don’t you think? The director of SHIELD has assigned the Hawk-Spider team with the boring handler to you. Do you really think you’re worth all of that money?_

After that last comment- a _challenge_ \- Harry ups his game, for maximum confusion. They know where he lives, but they don’t know where he _is_.

He randomly takes his invisibility cloak on and off when wandering about the city. He turns the bedroom into a nonlethal reality warping maze he changes every once in a while, just to mess with the agents that he knows regularly snoop around. Death was in hysterics after the space warping version.

He even eats and sleeps regularly for a week, building his magical stores, before spending an entire day apparating across America and reveling in Death’s amusement. He’s reliably informed that he caused ‘mass havoc truly worthy of his noble pedigree.’

Really, Death’s concerns with his ‘relapse into bad habits’ after that are uncalled for. He‘s doing just fine, even if he does heal a bit slower than normal.

It’s a small price to pay to have a true friend.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry really, really wishes Death was with him at the moment.

There are many problems with the scene before him, the least of which is that it’s midnight and a bloke in an _actual, honest to Merlin skintight red suit_ is threatening another guy, who’s handcuffed behind his back, with an _actual, honest to Merlin katana._

KATANA. If Harry had known _this_ was at the end of the stupid magical residue trail then he wouldn’t have followed it for a fucking _month and a half_. And that’s the _least_ of the problems.

The most of the problems would be that the guy being threatened is both the source of the magic and _actually fucking Voldemort._

Wait. No. Not _fucking_ Voldemort, he _is_ Voldemort. He looks exactly like Tom Marvolo Riddle, a little older than the diary version.

Voldemort.

Harry’s brain is so fried, he’s frying eggs on his brain. Is he dreaming? Maybe he fell asleep on a street corner when the last few nights caught up to him. Maybe he’s still awake, but actually ingested LSD by accident. Skin contact. Could he get high on drugs from skin contact? Who would paint drugs on the walls to get him high? Is this SHIELD’s latest concoction in ludicrous ideas to lure him out?

Because he killed Voldemort. He’s fairly sure. The horcruxes, the body, and everything.

The Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You-Know-Who.

The worst thing is that the urge to lick whoever is giving off the magic has _never gone away_. Oh, Merlin, he wants to lick Voldemort. He killed Voldemort. Voldemort murdered his parents. Vol-

 _THE FUCK IS WRONG, I COULD HEAR YOU ALL THE WAY FROM FUCKING ASGAR- oh_.

-demort fucked up his entire early life, Voldemort...

_Perhaps I should have told you beforehand. Did I break you? Hello?_

_DEATH._

_Oops. I messed up._

_NO. YOU DON’T GET AWAY WITH ‘MESSED UP.’ YOU FUCKED UP MAJORLY. THE FUCK?_

_Of all the things, this is the one to trigger you._

_TRIGGER? TRIGGER??? I AM BEYOND TRIGGERED RIGHT NOW. YOU COULD SAY I’M LILY-LEVEL ANGRY._

_Oh. Oh, no._

_OH, YES, DEATH. I WAS RATHER HOPING YOU WOULD EXPLAIN THIS TO ME._

_So, you see, it was all kind of out of my control-_

Harry’s violent jerk at this statement draws the attention of both of the dangerous people at the other end of the alley. Oh, shit.

“Language,” the red clad guy sings, obnoxiously. Fuck, Harry had said that out loud.

“You did,” the red suit guy continues, how is his masked face so expressive, “you good, kid?”

“I’m short, not young,” Harry says automatically.

Red suit guy ignores him. “I’ll answer that for you cuz you’re looking a teensy bit pale. No, you are not good, and you’ll be worse than a dropped chimichanga if you don’t scram right about now. This guy and me-“ he gestures casually to Tom with the katana, and Harry wants to scream _don’t turn your back on him,_ “-are having a little chat. No room for youngins like you.”

Harry stands there, gaping. “Did you just threaten me? And I’m short, not young.”

Death is just as astonished. Can this bloke not sense danger? Harry is right here.

“You said that already. Scram, kid.”

Behind the red suit guy, in Harry’s peripheral vision, Voldemort is watching, his eyes glinting in the moonlight under that dumb, perfect hair. It’s the delicious scent of familiar magic wafting toward him that makes him stupid, not whatever sleep deprivation Death will claim it is later. Wait. No, the other way around. What Harry ends up saying is,

“But I want to lick him.” And then points, like the complete dunce he is, at Voldemort.

The red suit guy blinks. “Okay, that was not what I was expecting. Wasn’t joking, though, about getting out of here-“

“You’re in the way,” Harry informs him, solemn. “And he has cold iron on him, it’s no good.” That had been an unpleasant lesson; Harry had keeled over before realizing that this universe contains a magic draining material. Handcuffs are probably more draining than a tiny screw, too- more surface area.

“I didn’t sign up to deal with crazy children when I said we should negotiate the next shipment,” red suit guy mutters to Voldemort. Baby Voldemort.

Baby Voldemort responds, “I am just as weirded out as you are.” Ouch, that crisp accent, that voice. Simultaneously the most painful and the most wonderful thing.

“I am right here,” Harry declares. 

Green eyes meet dark.

For a moment, time stretches; then Voldemort says “Potter?” in such a confused way that Harry doesn’t know what he should do when the Dark Lord pitches forward and passes out.

“What was that?” Harry wonders aloud.

“No,” red suit guy says indignantly, “what was _that_?“ He parks his gigantic muscle mass in between Harry and Voldemort. “Don’t you dare take another step, you little fuckwit. I can avenge him better if you don’t catch him. I’ll ask nicely, once, for an explanation.”

This is too much. Death is sulking suspiciously.

“Come on,” red suit guy wheedles, “I’ll prompt you. I thought he said he didn’t know you?”

I thought that too, Harry doesn’t say. More important is the cold iron. “Cold iron.”

“What?”

“You’re _killing_ him- Merlin, I need answers.” Harry pushes red suit guy out of the way and immobilizes his limbs with a burst of magic. Unfortunately this doesn’t extend to his voice; Harry is a little low on the juice.

“Hold on, where’re you dragging my best supplier? What do you mean, _I’m_ the one killing him? You liar! Unless long term Mexican food is a secret poison. Tacos forever! Did you just snap those handcuffs with your bare hands?”

“No. Please shut up.”

“I never shut up. Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to lick him.”

Harry’s nose had drifted towards Voldemort’s neck. He jerks back.

Red suit guy is pleading plaintively as Harry passes. “Could you just take me with you? It’d be a giant pain to track you down again, figure out what bad things you did, and then probably kill you.”

Harry eyes red suit guy, who is massive and not-drag-able. A massive prick in both mind and body.

Damn it all. He apparates out of that alleyway, two passengers in tow, into a heavily warded pocket of space in the bedroom-maze, red suit guy’s whining so abrasive in his ears he’s forming callouses, Voldemort bleeding all over his floor. Death is still suspiciously silent.

**BONUS: Harry’s Stalker Situation**

Coulson refuses. He won’t.

“But Cheese,” Clint whines, somehow, while whispering, “even Widow thinks it’s a good one!”

Natasha, bless her soul, backs him up. “I do.”

“No.” Coulson will not be swayed by his agents. “Codenaming our target ‘Wizard’ is asking for trouble.”

“I thought it was a good idea,” Clint grumbles to Natasha later, after the lead turns out to be another dead end.

“I know, Hawk. But what he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

Meanwhile, the Asset finds that clamping down on anomalous thoughts is growing more difficult by the day. SHIELD’s tails already make his job harder because he must not reveal HYDRA’s existence. When his incompetent handler changes his mission from ‘kill, capture if possible’ to ‘capture, kill only with no other alternatives,’ the Asset cannot bring himself to smother the small spark of frustration in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR What You Need To Know:  
> Do Harry’s habits remind you of someone? Nudge, nudge, wink wink, hellooo canon MCU, it’s been a while. Next chapter, I promise ;D
> 
> Extras:  
> * To those who expected an actual summary here: if the silliness hasn’t caught on by now idk what to tell you  
> * Yes, Agent Coulson’s codename is Cheese. It is canon.  
> * Brother, aka amythrain, has made an appearance. He pointed out that in the last chapter, 2011 doesn’t make sense, because Iron Man 2 took place in 2010. There is some debate on this. I shall not change it because 1. Thor takes place in 2011 and 2. It’s already in there and I’m lazy. Reader discretion advised.  
> * I actively lucid dream. But the other night it didn’t even occur to me that something was out of the ordinary. I was shopping when zombies came pouring into the store, and the only way to fend them off was to aggressively bash them with onions. I’m not sure what this says about my subconscious. Have you all had any interesting dreams lately?  
> * are Death’s italics difficult to read for anyone? If i can improve something don’t hesitate to ask :)
> 
> Up next:  
> Harry: what would you like to drink?  
> Tom: *looks away sullenly* liquid.  
> Also, Loki. Lucius Malfoy. Fenrir Greyback. Drumroll... Severus Snape. Barty Crouch Jr. IRON MAN. What the heck will be going on, you ask?? It shall all happen.


	3. They Really Suck at Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Chapters 3 and 4) Harry has houseguests, exercises, and gets a job. All good things. Good, yes. ehehehe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HURRAH. good folks, i am very much alive, in no small part due to all of your lovely encouragement! These next chapters are served extra long and twisty :D (please ignore how that sounds like part of a really weird dick joke) (why did I jump straight to dick jokes) (gah erase erase)

3 They Really Suck at Small Talk

**Ws Ws Ws**

The Asset, an inconspicuous shadow on a wall, clinically records as Target ‘Harry,’ Watchlist ‘Riddle,’ and Watchlist ‘Wilson’ vanish into thin air with a _crack_. It seems as though the SHIELD agents’ wild theories may actually have merit.

He lands silently in the deserted alleyway, ignoring the creaking of his joints, and inspects the handcuffs the Target dropped in its haste to leave. They’re unlocked with such skill that no marks mar the cold iron. No marks, aside from a small print on the chain: a row of unfamiliar runes, and then- ‘Made in Latveria.’

Afterwards, his handler tells him yet again to _capture, but cover your tracks. You’ll be getting another tool soon._

That foreign, small voice in the Asset’s heart thinks that being out of cryo is nice, even though his body, unaccustomed to prolonged warmth, faintly aches as he moves.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry lands surefooted and releases the immobilization spell on red suit guy. He’ll need the magic to heal Voldemort. Can’t question a dead body, after all.

Red suit guy falls to his knees, hastily tugs up the bottom of his mask, and proceeds to vomit his intestines onto the dusty wooden floor. Harry wants to vindictively smear the bile all over Voldemort’s obnoxiously fancy shoes.

(Usually at this thought Death would say something like, _I am so glad I lack a physical body for you to torture_. Today, Death is silent.)

Harry lights the room with a lumos instead, sanitizing and running some diagnostics. Well. Not too bad. The blood he’d thought was coming from Voldemort is not actually Voldemort’s blood. There’s just extreme magical exhaustion, and some damage to his magical pathways, easily fixed with bed rest once the life endangering part is over. Harry floats the unconscious form to the middle of the room, pulls his holly wand out of the pendant at his throat, and starts to siphon magic into Voldemort’s empty channels.

Being St. Mungo’s convenient test subject did have some pros- namely, knowing the latest medical innovations, and gaining some basic skills besides. Harry had picked up on what not to do with magical transfusions fairly quickly; several explosive deaths ensured he would never forget.

**Dp Dp Dp**

Wade Wilson watches incredulously in between shuddering retches. Somehow Harry has waved a stick around and sent glowing lights into the air. Before his very eyes, warmth is blooming in Riddle’s flesh. It’s like magic, except magic doesn’t exist.

Then again, Wade himself exists, so this isn’t that much of a stretch of his imagination. And this Harry guy did undeniably _teleport_ the three of them to wherever this is. It’s a small, bare room, with dusty wooden flooring and faded yellow wallpaper, and strangely, there don’t seem to be any doors or windows.

As soon as Wade’s nausea quiets, he scoots away from the puddle of half digested tacos to breathe down Harry’s neck. Riddle’s pallor- and Wade has no idea when or how exactly Riddle had been injured, in fact had no idea Riddle was injured at all- Riddle’s pallor has greatly improved, and his chest is rising and falling.

“What’re you doing now?” Wade peers at the rest of Riddle. Harry is still waving the stick around, but it doesn’t look like anything’s changing, so he figures it’s safe to talk. “Why’d you do that, heal Riddle? You healed Riddle, right? What was up with him? How do you know him? Where are we? Y’know, I didn’t really expect you to take me along when I asked. I kinda wish I didn’t ask. I know now that teleportation is horrible. I’ll never un-feel that.”

Harry interjects in the time it takes for Wade to shudder in remembrance, his jaw tense. “Please shut up.”

“Nope! I’m not called the Merc-With-A-Mouth for nothing. So you’re British!” Harry’s kinda hot- sexy accent, intense, lithe and little, littler for his oversized clothes. Not very nice, though. Very politely rude. Wade would be half in love with him if not for that; politely rude people itch him the wrong way.

“I really think you should answer my questions, for your own safety,” Wade declares, and points a handgun at Harry with relish.

Harry doesn’t even look up. “If you break my concentration, Voldemort will explode,” he grits out.

Wade’s mouth snaps shut. That’s that, then. He doesn’t want to blow up the most ethical, reliable illegal weapons dealer on the East Coast- he can wait. He makes a useless circuit about the room, finding no exit point, and flops back against a yellow wall to wait for the magic voodoo to finish.

Finally, Harry puts his stick down, admiring whatever he’s seeing in his handiwork. He turns, frowns at the bile in the corner, and seems to be wracking his brain for where exactly that came from. His shoulders slump as he visually gives up, waves a hand, and banishes the bile and scours the blood from the floor under Riddle.

Harry looks up. He sees Wade there as if just realizing he exists, which, _rude_ , and abruptly levels the stick at him. _Double rude._ And sweet chimichangas, he’s feeling seriously threatened by a stick.

Wade wants to whine _can I talk now_ but he’s not suicidal. He has a feeling Harry’s kind of damage won’t heal as usual.

“Alright,” Harry says flatly, and _wow_ intense, “who are you.”

“Deadpool, that’s me,” Wade giggles nervously. “Merc-With-A-Mouth, mercenary for hire, I like tacos, actually, you want a taco?” He reaches for his belt pouch; he’d tucked away his handgun earlier. His hand freezes an inch from the top flap as the room chills.

Harry’s mouth twists. “I don’t want food. I want answers.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Wade backs towards the wall and slo-mo puts his hands up. “I can’t answer without any questions!”

The conjured lights turn colder with the temperature. Wade is sweating. Harry murmurs, his green, green eyes steady, “Connection to Voldemort.”

“Who’s Voldemort?” Wade’s arms go limp and flop to his sides in genuine confusion.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle?”

“Oh, _Riddle_? He’s never went by Voldemort before, that I know of.”

“Connection.”

“Right, right,” Wade’s back hits the wall and he realizes the room having no exit points means he’s trapped with Harry unless he busts through a wall. “Riddle’s a good friend of mine-“ 

“A friend of Riddle,” Harry growls, and the stick nears.

“No! I mean, yes, but he’s just my supplier. Y’know, guns and stuff, supplies, most of my stash, it comes from him,” Wade babbles. “So, I have vested interest in keeping him alive, but it, ah!”

Harry lowers the stick and turns aside, pinching his nose with his non-stick hand. “Such a mess,” he mutters into thin air. The temperature drops drastically.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” a raspy voice sounds out of thin air. Wade startles at the sudden weight pressing down on his very soul, and tries very hard to shrink himself into a corner and go unnoticed.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Harry sighs, a mite louder, and uncovers his face. He tucks his stick into apendant at the hollow of his throat, ( _how_ ), then his arms drop to his side. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you earlier. There must’ve been a good reason, right? There’s always a good reason.” 

“Well,” the voice says. A vague sense of guilt permeates the air.

“What,” Harry says, and is just beginning to work up to a murderous expression when the voice cuts in,

“Not like that! But Fate said. Just let him go? You know Tom couldn’t move on without you, and that might have been fine if it were just him, but he’d used soul magic to tie his closest Death Eaters to him as well, and they were all just there _all the time._ I listened to Lucius’ Malfoy Hair Lectures for a _century_ , Harry, a _century_! Then you went looking for Tom and I couldn’t tell you...”

Midway through the complaint Harry sat himself down. He’s now cradling his head in his hands. “Death, I really-“ he sighs again. “It’s okay. Fate said, and she know what she’s doing, right? I can deal with it. Just, let me sleep on it?”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll go now, catch up on paperwork and all, tell you the rest tomorrow?”

“The rest? No, not now. Tomorrow.”

The crushing presence leaves. Wade uncurls himself from the corner. “The actual, literal Death?” he asks tentatively.

Harry startles again like he can’t believe Wade is still here. “What? Why didn’t you leave?”

“Duh,” Wade rolls his eyes, “no door.” Harry stands and takes in his surroundings sheepishly. “It’s fine. I would have stayed anyway for Riddle.” 

“Sorry, mate,” Harry clasps Wade’s shoulder, sways on his feet. “That’s fine, if you’d like to stay. I’ll make a room for you?” He continues earnestly, blowing past Wade’s skeptical look at this complete turnabout attitude. From ‘one second away from murder’ to ‘friendly’. “Really. You heard Death, Fate has some sort of plan for Voldemort and I don’t intend on getting in her way. I also have a vested interest in keeping him alive. Besides, I’m knackered. I couldn’t kill anyone if I tried. If you could just move Voldemort for me...” And Harry shuffles towards a random wall.

“You seem remarkably unconcerned that I’ll murder you in your sleep,” Wade says suspiciously. He tosses Riddle over his shoulder.

Harry yawns. “I’m Death’s Master, didn’t you hear?” he answers, a sardonic note in his voice. He taps on the wall. A complicated runic pattern blinks into existence. A burst of magic, and the bedroom maze starts dismantling itself.The wall falls outwards with a crash.

“I’m Harry, by the way,” Harry raises his voice to be heard over the loud sounds of pockets of space collapsing and expanding. And then, abruptly, “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Wade frowns, noticing how dark the rings under Harry’s eyes are. “I know, and you already said that.”

“Oh, did I?” Harry says absently. Wade follows him and his magic floating lights into what is now a normal bedroom with cheery yellow walls. The floor is still dusty; soft clouds kick up under his feet.

Wade sets Riddle down on the bed. It’s so clean it looks out of place. Harry collapses on the other side. “Room- two doors to the right,” Harry manages before he passes out. The floating lights snuff out.

Wade looks between Riddle and Harry for a moment. It’s not his problem, whatever their issues with each other are, so... he may as well get some sleep. Gotta have the energy to keep Riddle alive tomorrow, and to wrangle some answers out of Harry.

**Hp Hp D**

The morning announces itself with sunlight. It pierces through Harry’s eyelids to unceremoniously pull him from dreamless sleep. His mind is clear. 

_I should have done this years ago_ , Harry thinks, and opens his eyes. He promptly closes them. He takes a breath and cautiously opens them again.

He yelps and rolls off the side of the bed. The black cat that had been sitting on his chest yowls and leaps onto the headboard, its green eyes flashing. Those eyes, shades lighter than Harry’s own, had been staring him in the face just seconds ago.

Harry grumbles and shoos it out of the room so he can dress. It had shown up the day after Harry claimed the apartment and refused to leave, even when Harry’d set up his wards, which Hermione’d once told him was an uncomfortable sensation for non magical beings. Harry hadn’t exactly been looking to adopt the cat; he found himself buying litter and food for it anyway. It had no diseases, so it stayed, no matter how touchy feely it seemed to be.

It was the funniest thing. It would plaster itself against Harry all the time, but when he reached out to brush its fur it would act all high and mighty and leave, as if it weren’t what most would consider a household animal.

He draws closed the curtain that let in that rude sunlight and then finally looks at Voldemort on the bed. He’s still out cold. Harry’s relieved. With much more energy, he feels much more himself, and as such would probably not hesitate to murder Voldemort (again) at the slightest provocation. Harry has a feeling that Fate would be most displeased.

 _She would be_. Death’s chill settles over him. _I must remind you, though, that the Riddle in front of you now is not the Voldemort you knew. I mostly repaired his soul when I gave him a body, and his new body can love. I mean, he’s still a sociopath. There’s only so much I can do. But you should give him some chance. I can see how it wears on you to carry this hate. His was a folly of youth, messing with soul magic. He regrets._

Harry snorts. “Regrets. What, failing to kill all the muggles? Being so obsessed with Harry hunting he never carried out all of his grand plans?”

 _He is similar to you. He carries the same burdens_ , Death says. _Don’t deny it. You thought his Knights of Walpurgis had a point._

Harry thinks of Ginny, her red hair swinging limply to cover her eyes as her head dipped, saying _you’re more similar than you realize. That’s why you understand him so well. We came together for him. Without him we’re no good together- you’ve been feeling it too. Please don’t be mad._ And her warm brown eyes peered up at him, swimming with tears of regret, willing him to understand. He did.

Harry runs a hand through his wild hair and sighs when his fingers tangle in a knot. He picks it apart, considering. He can’t kill Voldemort. Riddle. Whatever. He doesn’t have to live with him, either.

“Okay,” Harry muses slowly. “All I’ve got to do is... let Vol- Riddle go and make sure we never meet again. I can do that. Then Riddle will die of old age and you can put him into another universe.” Neat and perfect! 

Death says with trepidation, _Er, about that... maybe not?_

“What.”

 _I only said I_ mostly _repaired Riddle’s soul..._ Death admits sheepishly.

“What.”

 _Don’t blame me! Or him! He didn’t exactly know that making a living horcrux with a human being for years was going to tether your soul and his soul piece together!_

“What.“

_Emm... he didn’t know you would become my Master and that splitting a soul’s ties too far is not the best idea, but you’re still kind of... stuck with each other?_

Harry opens and closes his mouth before sound comes out. “You didn’t think to tell me this earlier? Just, oh, maybe Harry should know that I’m putting Riddle into a body in another universe and it might have long term consequences.” 

_But it’s not too bad, right?_ Death wails _. The only effect I’ve seen so far is that his magic tastes good to you now, because you were separated for a while. Right?_

“I’m _stuck_ with him _forever_ and that’s _not too bad_?“ Harry shouts in disbelief.

_Fate reassured me that it’ll work out?_

“Why is that a question,” Harry mutters, and takes to pacing about the room. To be honest, he’s not too fussed. Riddle and him still don’t have to cross paths; he’ll just avoid forever. That’s easy; Riddle’s only one person. 

As traitorous as it seems, he doesn’t actually hate Riddle. Sure, he ruined Harry’s early life and hurt his precious people, but if Harry worried all the time about the crazy horrible stuff in his past he would actually go insane. And being insane for eternity would not be good for either him or Death.

He just... he’s been hurt before, and as statistically impossible as it would be, Harry doesn’t want to be hurt again. Riddle brings with him a lot of hurting potential. Harry can’t deal with that. Avoidance is best.

Death is hovering anxiously. Harry sighs, softens. “Death. I won’t lie, I’m not happy about this. But it’s not your fault. We’re good?” He pauses, recalling a word Death had said. “And I thought I told you to knock off that ‘Master’ thing a while back. We both know I don’t control you.”

 _That’s good,_ Death says slowly, not as relieved with Harry’s words as Harry had hoped. _Just please remember that when you see Bellatrix Lestrange. She’s in your living room._

Harry shrieks and runs out of the bedroom.

Death sighs, the temperature to dropping rapidly with his exhale. _Riddle. You can open your eyes now._

Death floats over and pins Riddle to the bed with soul crushing weight. Riddle’s cheeks pale, though to his credit, his dark eyes don’t waver. _Harry is important to me beyond keeping me alive. Please take care of him. That said. If you hurt him unnecessarily I will find a way to send you to Hell and I will never let you go. Be warned._

Riddle works his throat for a long moment. When he finally speaks his voice is rough. “He is my horcrux. I take care of mine.”

 _So be it._ Death inclines its head, turns, and follows after Harry, not bothering to warn Riddle that calling Harry ‘mine’ would have him eviscerated. Death can hold a grudge.

**Tmr Tmr Ww**

Riddle doesn’t allow himself to relax as Death’s power leaves the room. Death had seemed unconcerned, but Bella knows no restraint and will blow straight through Harry to get to him.

Riddle cautiously sits up, then swings his legs off the side of the bed and forces himself to stand. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes and Harry’s diluted magic thrums through him. It’ll do if Riddle conserves how much he uses. He has no intention of allowing Bella to harm Harry, Master of Death- and isn’t that a real kicker?- or no.

His leg muscles protest movement with the familiar ache of magical exhaustion. He pushes past the doorway, out into a dark hallway. Raised voices are carrying from the other end. Tom palms his wand from his wrist holster as he nears.

He turns into a relatively large, empty room flooded with lumos just as Harry yells, “ _SHE MURDERED SIRIUS_!“

Harry’s chest is heaving. Bellatrix, a wild look in her eyes, is tied up and gagged halfway across the room (never mind about his worry for Harry, then, he must have a faster draw than before); Greyback hunches over behind her looking vaguely confused. Severus stands on the welcome mat outside the front door, his hand still on the doorknob and a pinched expression on his face, his eyes glued to Harry.

Death faces Harry between him and Bellatrix. It looks as serene as Death ought to be, but there’s a tense note in its still form that speaks of anxiousness. _You can’t kill her. Please, Harry,_ Death rasps. Greyback shivers unconsciously, his eyes lost.

“She cannot live,” snarls Harry, and he lunges forward. Death moves to intercept him- needlessly, because Tom steps into the room and grasps the back of Harry’s shirt. 

Harry lashes out, clips Tom’s cheek and shoulder before Tom wrangles his wand to Harry’s throat.

“Yield,” Tom says calmly as Harry continues thrashing. Tom is larger and taller and holds Harry easily. He frowns at Harry’s physical weakness. “Yield.” 

Finally, Harry subsides, panting.

“My Lord,” Greyback and Severus gather themselves enough to croak out.

Tom ignores them. “Next time you have a prisoner,” he tells Harry, “check them for potential weapons before bringing them in.” 

This snaps Harry out of his murderous haze. “Riddle- I- what?”

Death inclines its head for Tom the second time that day and disappears. Tom shoves his discomfort at the gesture from his former greatest fear into the back of his mind for later.

(Only _former_ fear, because one, he’s immune to Death now thanks to Harry, and two, watching the powerful being struggle with paperwork for a century really put things into perspective.)

Tom’s mostly sure Harry isn’t going to murder anyone so he sets Harry aside. He ignores Harry touching his throat in shock and puts his wand out of sight.

First: the crispy air of fall is sweeping in. That will not do. “Severus, come in and close the door. Hello, Mr. Wilson.”

Deadpool had slipped in before the door shut. His arms are full of plastic bags. Usually one heard him before one saw him; in this case, Tom knows that he has some modicum of discretion. He swallows his words at Tom’s quelling glance.

“Now. Fenrir, Severus, Bella, thank you, but I am not harmed. Bella, if you would inform Lucius in person, and arrange a meeting for the afternoon. Severus, go sleep; I will talk with you tomorrow morning.” Severus looks about to protest. Bella pulls him out with her. Tom continues, “Fenrir-“ but is interrupted by a strangled noise from Harry. He turns, raises an eyebrow.

Harry is gaping. “Y- You-“ he starts, and no sound comes out for a few seconds. Then he bursts out, “You’re so- reasonable! You _thanked_ them! And, and! You have a wand!“

Tom should be more offended than he is; he’s been thanking them for at least two decades by now. He has to admit, though, that he had been quite insane the last Harry saw of him.

“I do not believe I am insane any longer,” says Tom, dryly, “and Severus is no idiot. He’s been cultivating a magical garden for the last thirty years.” Severus’ pride and joy, really. He turns back to Fenrir. “Fenrir. You are to stay. Would you mind guarding Harry while I’m out?”

Harry makes a sound of outrage. “Hold on a moment! I never agreed to deal with anybody beyond this point. Since you’re up and walking I’ll assume you’re all healed, so you can leave, and no way am I letting Greyback stay. Leave!” Harry’s eyes flash dangerously and he whips out his wand.

“Whoa, whoa,” Wilson exclaims, jumping lightly between Harry and Tom, palms up, bags forgotten by the door. “Let’s not be hasty?? You said you had a ‘vested interest in keeping him alive’!”

“I don’t have a vested interest in _dealing with him_! He can be alive away from here!”

“I will be fine,” Tom murmurs to Wilson, touching fingertips to Wilson’s shoulder to move him. Wilson steps aside. “Harry, I cannot allow that. I need to ensure your safety. I cannot do that without being here.”

“‘Need to ensure my safety?’” Harry scoffs. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the _Master of Death_.“

Fenrir shudders by the door, eyes wide. Of course. As a werewolf he is more in tune with the calls of natural beings and is affected greatly Death’s presence.

“Harry,” says Tom, low, moving towards Harry. “I promised Death this.”

Harry’s eyes widen, then narrow. “I’ll get Death to take it back. You can leave. Just- leave!” His wand disappears and he gestures to the door, looking fed up and tired.

Tom’s patience only stretches so far. He grasps Harry’s upper arms and shakes him lightly. He needs Harry to understand. “Even without the promise of Death, you are my horcrux! I owe you for saving me from my own folly. I am not unreasonable, but this matter I will. Not. Budge!”

“I don’t have to deal with you- you messed with my entire childhood, you hurt my precious people! I don’t have to deal with anything!” Harry sags in his grip, and all of a sudden, his green, green eyes have taken on a wet sheen.

Those words sting. The glistening in Harry’s eyes stings. Here is the man, grown from the boy, the only one who could keep his whole, insane attention in a duel and out of it, dismissing him. Tom will not have it.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice so calculating Harry looks up. “I will stay away. But I will return if you harm one of my people.”

Harry mouths ‘one of my people’ in confusion as Tom strides away, taking Greyback with him.

“Well,” says Deadpool, breaking the tension. He hefts a plastic bag. “Tacos for breakfast?”

“I’m short, not young,” Harry protests halfheartedly.

Wade leaves the flat an hour later, head reeling from how none of Harry’s edge shows when he wants to be friendly and welcoming (‘wizarding transportation is the worst, huh?’), and from the furniture Harry had ‘transfigured’ from random small things.

Apparently, the ‘room’ Harry had first teleported them to was a only a pocket of space in Harry’s ‘bedroom maze.’ Harry told Wade its purpose was to ‘prank agents from Soggy Heads Interminably Enjoying Long Days and Huffy Yarn Dogs Reciting Arias, which didn’t explain anything. Whenever Wade asked for clarification Harry would grin and say ‘magic!’ Which should have been more annoying than it was, but Harry is too amiable to be annoyed at. 

Despite Harry’s question dodging, he seems a good guy, if a bit socially awkward when he’s not all fired up.

Wade nods at Greyback on the rooftop across the street. Riddle and Harry’s business is none of his as long as Riddle remains reliably alive.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Several days later, Harry’s making dinner, and he just can’t take it anymore. The eyes on his back. Death Eaters have been following him everywhere, at distances too far for him to yell at them, and if he nears them they apparate away or pretend to be doing something innocent.

One or two people from SHIELD and HYDRA is fine. They’re generally harmless and easy to ditch. But avoiding wizards is drawing on Harry’s knowledge from his days on the run.

Harry hates being on the run.

He leaves the pan sizzling, crosses the kitchen, wrenches the window open. “FENRIR GREYBACK!”

Greyback’s head pops back up from where it had hurriedly hidden. It tilts to the side. Harry scowls; he’s sure Greyback is smirking, and he’s pretty sure his tails have been betting on when he would snap.

“GET RIDDLE OVER HERE!” he hollers, and slams the window shut.

He grumpily takes the pan off the stove. “You didn’t see,” he tells the cat, who is watching him from the kitchen table, “so I suppose you wouldn’t know any better. Don’t trust Riddle’s pretty face. When he’s awake he’s a piece of shit.”

The black cat chuffs, its sharp mint eyes scrunched up into slits. Harry’s sure it’s laughing at him.

“What! Laughing at me!” Harry shoves a plate of cat food in its direction and perches his plate on the corner of table not taken up by cat. He chews a mouthful. “Just you wait until you hear him monologuing. He’ll come in here all ridiculous and ruin my bad mood.”

Although Riddle seems quite different from Voldemort, more like the diary Riddle with less crazy, Harry’s still sure he knows what to expect. A person can’t change the base of who they are so easily.

Harry recalls the strange thing Riddle had said in their last confrontation and groans, dropping his fork and putting his head in his hands. “I’ve gotta set him straight. I don’t think he knows that I’m not actually his horcrux.” 

“Since a piece of my soul is still connected to you, preventing me from dying, even though it’s not in your physical body I’d say it counts,” Riddle’s voice smoothly interjects from close behind Harry, a strange note in it. Harry jolts.

“Riddle! You came quick.”

“I wasn’t going to miss my chance,” says Riddle, evenly.

Harry grabs a handful of Riddle’s shirt to bring him down to eye level so Harry can threaten him properly. He pushes back his sudden desire to breathe in deeply; he hasn’t sensed Riddle’s magic for a while. 

Riddle braces himself with a hand on the chair, his head turned towards the cat, who is hissing. “Who is that?” Riddle asks, that strange note still in his voice.

“Leave the cat alone and look at me,” says Harry. He waits for Riddle’s eyes to meet his before continuing. “Listen. You gotta call your people off. It’s beyond aggravating.”

This close, Harry can make out that the dark in Riddle’s eyes isn’t actually black, but a really dark brown.

A beat passes before Riddle swallows and speaks. “Only if you allow me in.” Seeing Harry open his mouth, he adds, voice carefully measured, “I would only drop by every few days to check on you.”

“That’s it?” Harry says, suspicious. 

Riddle nods. Then sways.

Harry stands hurriedly, almost knocking his chair over. He doesn’t owe anything to Riddle but he doesn’t want his hard work healing him ruined. “Sit down, Riddle, you’re about to fall over.”

Harry has the weird sensation of Riddle obediently following his direction, and also of pushing a person nearly a foot taller than him into a chair.

Riddle waves him off from fussing over tea. “Harry, it is nothing. Do not trouble yourself. I will leave soon enough, if you agree to the terms.” 

“I-“ Harry remembers. “Yeah, that’d be fine. Just- get some sleep, okay? I’m supposed to be mad at you, and I can’t be when you look half dead.”

Riddle blinks heavily. “Hmmm,” he hums, and moves to stand. Greyback appears in the doorway of the kitchen from where he’d been listening in. 

They’re at the front door, Riddle being not-helped by Greyback to stay upright. Riddle looks back before he steps out. “Right,” he says, and stops for a long moment. “Harry. SHIELD will not bother you anymore.”

“What?” Harry responds, bewildered. “But- organizations like that don’t just... give up.”

Tom smirks, a small thing, no less smug for its size. “I have... some valuable services. I can be very persuasive.”

Harry snorts and watches the pair go. They reach the end of the street before Harry decides, _fuck it_ , and runs after them.

“Wait!” he calls. Fenrir tugs at Tom to halt and they wait for Harry to catch up. He asks, “why? Why do that for me?” Because he has a feeling Riddle’s exhaustion is magical- Riddle wouldn’t allow anyone other than himself to handle the scientists’ probing, what with his possessiveness of magic. And Harry kind of understands Riddle’s protectiveness for the people under him.

Riddle turns around. “I can’t have the government going after my horcrux, can I? And I owe you.” 

“For what? I didn’t do anything for you- in fact, I remember killing you!”

“You killed me, yes,” Riddle says, and his gaze is steady and his jaw doesn’t clench. “Death showed me that I needed it. You set me free from insanity and pain, and then you gave me... my greatest goal, my greatest fear. My greatest gift.” His eyes don’t lower at the admission. The words sound like he’s been thinking about them for quite a while, but not rehearsed. Some kind of strength is in his face that Harry has never seen before. “I admit, I wish I could have done more to fix the wizarding world. Here, though. I have also done much. I must thank you, yet words will not suffice. I consider you one of my own, though you may not see my view; I will treat you as such.”

Harry stares. Then, abrupt, “You don’t have to do that. Don’t do that. I can’t believe I felt _guilty_ killing you! It hung over me for _years_ afterward- you- you-“ he stops and tugs at his hair. 

Riddle lifts his hands and settles them over Harry’s, gently bringing them down. He clasps Harry’s palms in his own, his hands engulfing Harry’s. “Worry not. It is something I wish to do, not something you can control.”

Harry sniffs and pulls his hands back, immediately missing the larger man’s warmth. Riddle lets them go.

“Well,” he starts, then clears his throat, falls silent. What could anyone say to that? Riddle would never say all of those things if they weren’t true, not even for a ruse. But all that, for something Harry’s fairly sure he did out of malice and desperation and Dumbledore!

The corners of Riddle’s mouth tug upwards briefly. He motions to Greyback, who’s been standing off to the side, looking extremely uncomfortable at the evidence that his Lord has any emotions besides ‘calculating’ and ‘anger,’ and towards his former nemesis, no less. Though Riddle would probably say that Dumbledore was their nemesis and Harry was just a tool. They turn the corner, out of sight.

The cat is waiting for him on the front stoop, illuminated by the light spilling out of the front door Harry’d forgotten to close in his haste. It gives him a disapproving look. 

“Stop that,” Harry groans, locking his wards in and walking back to the kitchen. “It’s not that big of a deal. My main problem with the whole thing was how I had no choice in it. I forgave him a long time ago- it was too hard to keep holding on, you know? It’s a nice sentiment he has. Whatever he wants to do is his prerogative, not mine.”

He pauses. “Wow, that sounded as emotionally healthy as Hermione!”

The cat mews and jumps onto the table. Unbeknownst to Harry, what he said was, “You are too kind.” And the cat thinks, _just like Thor. You forgive too easily._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bypass the Words:  
> Just as the title said. There was barely any small talk in here.
> 
> Extras.  
> * Apologies for the update delay- hope it was worth waiting for! :D  
> * Another chapter is going up tomorrow. I have it all written, just gotta edit a bit.  
> * Did it make sense? Liked / disliked? Want to tell me about your dream last night?  
> * My dreams have been very colorful lately. There was one drab one... about a month ago. I was trapping bugs around the house to feed to a worm. It wouldn’t eat spiders. It grew into a snake that looked particularly... wormy, like Grima Wormtongue, but a snake. And then it tried to eat me.  
> * I told this to a friend and she said, “honestly just submit that as your college essay that’s a perfect way to describe yourself.” - . -
> 
> Up next:  
> Winter Soldier: tries  
> Loki, Tom, Harry: you have made mistakes  
> Tony, out of nowhere: mistakes, yeah, believe me I know mistakes


	4. Harry is Hired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *tired lol like me
> 
> (Chapters 3 and 4) Harry has houseguests, exercises, and gets a job. All good things. Good, yes. ehehehe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to another chapter of my child  
> it’s growing o.O  
> here is what I meant when I said ‘long and twisty’ yesterday

4 My Aim is So True; I Wanna Show You 

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry’s been getting back into shape. Riddle had subdued him easily- too easily- that morning. Unacceptable. He’d let himself go too much since _light heat melting oh Merlin somebody stop help stop Potter! Please!_. There hadn’t been much purpose to staying in shape in a world of ashes, when staying in shape hadn’t done much to stop the destruction in the first place.

Harry still remembers his Auror training regimens; now that he’s sticking to them, he‘s actually settled into a regular schedule and he eats and sleeps and everything. He’s quite proud of himself.

He’s collapsed on the floor after a workout, looking forward to lunch. The cat is eyeing his sweaty mess from its favorite couch cushion. Its ears swivel towards the door a moment before Riddle steps through, bringing with him a blast of cold, damp air.

Harry’s lucky his flush hides when his cheeks and ears warm further at the sight of Riddle. Riddle’s confession hasn’t been far from his mind these past weeks; the more he thinks about it, the more he’s embarrassed at Riddle’s misplaced fervor. Sure, killing Riddle was better for everybody. But all of the ‘I take care of mine’? Making a basilisk out of a garden snake.

And, anyway. There’s no denying that Riddle’s a handsome man. 

Riddle shrugs out of his heavy, black coat, quickly charms it dry and hangs it up. His last visit, he’d cleaned the entire flat and filled in the furniture Harry hadn’t bothered to acquire- with magic, of course- claiming it ‘wasn’t proper to live in substandard conditions.’

Harry snorts aloud. Riddle’s eyes flick to him from the entranceway. “Something funny?” he questions.

“Oh, just your delicate sensibilities,” says Harry, with relish.

Riddle pauses in irritation. “I prefer not to live with vermin, thank you,” he says primly. He kneels and puts a hand to Harry’s forehead. Immediately, a cool healing runs through Harry’s aching muscles, accompanied by a brief flavor of dark and rich. 

Harry sighs in relief, pushes into the hand, and Riddle obligingly sends another wave of healing magic through him. A tad ironic, yes, that Riddle of all people is better at healing magic than Harry because of his ironclad control. Harry isn’t complaining.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry says after a while. He stands and moves to the kitchen for tea, Riddle and the cat following. “I know you said you’d be thanking me, or whatever it is that you’re doing. That’s... fine. I just- I can’t take things from you, like your favors, or your time, without giving something back.”

Riddle’s mouth tilts downwards slightly. “I do not understand.”

“I have to _do_ something for you, Merlin’s balls!” Harry huffs, setting the tea to brew.

“Harry-“ Riddle looks bewildered, then understanding dawns in his eyes. “Harry. Don’t be crude. If that’s what you need, I can give to you.”

“What I mean is- that’s- it’s not about what I need, it’s about what _you_ need.”

Riddle nods, firmly. “I know. Alright. Expect somebody on your doorstep two days from now. You are to heal their bullet wounds.”

“Wait,” exclaims Harry, “that wasn’t an invitation to- to shoot somebody for me to heal!”

“I would not waste resources so foolishly,” Riddle scoffs, and Harry himself feels a little foolish at jumping to conclusions, but mostly relieved. Riddle continues, “My subordinates have a... task nearby in two days’ time. It is likely that one of them will be shot at in the process. They cannot wear runic wards or use magic for fear of electronic interference. It would be logical for them to rendezvous here after the task as you are not on record and you have wards.”

Harry blinks. “Oh. I’ll do it, then.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Harry,” Riddle says with satisfaction. That was quite convenient- Harry suspects Riddle expected something like this all along. “They will give you a code when you open the door so you know they are from me.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees.

Riddle subtly moves away from Harry and says, “You can go shower now. I’ll wait out here.”

Now that Harry’s been reminded, his shirt and sweatpants are kind of uncomfortable with his drying sweat. He wrinkles his nose.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

As soon as Harry is out of earshot, Tom whirls on the cat. “Does he know? Loki?”

The cat leaps off of the kitchen table and transforms into a man, landing in a shallow crouch. He’s dressed in a sleek leather and green ensemble; his black hair, hanging in loose, tangled waves, contrasts his fair skin; an agility resides in his face and mint, pale green eyes. He straightens- slightly taller than Tom himself, only just. His magic swirls about his core and hands.

Tom draws his wand. They eye each other.

Tom knows how to read someone well versed in manipulation. He sees this fluidity of expression in himself, in Lucius, in Severus, in the few skilled muggles he’s allowed into his service, in the redheaded SHIELD agent he’d turned away from Harry. This man, Loki: off balance, indebted to Harry, angry at Tom. Holds himself as pure bloods of old families tend to do.

“So you did look into me.” Loki chuckles, humorless, smooth, hiding some discomfort. “I take it the ability to sense magic is not common in your kind. He knows not. Yet he can sense yours.” And Loki tilts his head in blatant curiosity.

Tom relaxes his jaw and does not rise to the bait, keeps his wand hand steady and dueling stance loose. Here is an skilled opponent. Tom studies Loki further, and his wand lowers slightly in surprise. “You are unsure of your welcome were you to reveal yourself.” 

Loki’s expression twists. Tom’s lips curl downwards in contempt. He crafts his next words with care to hit Loki where it should stick the most. “If you have been paying attention all of this time, you should know. Harry would forgive you quickly. Your feelings, though, should not supersede his. He does not deserve this deception. The longer you wait to reveal yourself, the more you will give him to grudge against.”

There’s a warning in Loki’s tense form.

Tom continues, his gaze cutting, “He is too good and too weak for this. Reveal yourself before you leave, do not hurt Harry, and you will come to no harm by my hand.”

At this, Loki breaks out of his stance and lunges for Tom. He clutches a fistful of Tom’s shirt. Tom lets him.

“What _right_ do you have to threaten _me_ , when _you_ are the one who hurt him the most!” Loki snarls with startling vehemence. 

Tom’s instinct is to reel back, so he presses forward, weighting the air with his magic. Loki’s own magic surges back against him, sharp and slippery. Tom slams him against the wall, hisses, borderline parseltongue, “ _Harry is one of mine_.”

Loki grunts and throws Tom’s grip from his shoulder. “As if,” he scoffs. “Harry would eviscerate you if he heard that.”

Tom’s eyes are bleeding into scarlet. A side effect of his extended time as a split soul.

They take a step back simultaneously, the vicious magic in the air so thick it’s nearly visible. They’re about to draw on each other. Magic presses heavier, sharper-

The sound of chimes, followed by a crash. The wards must have been brought down by Harry. Something is wrong.

Tom and Loki share a look. They both take off for the bedroom, unwilling to risk teleportation. In this, at least, they are quickly in agreement.

Tom bursts through the doorway first.

Harry gasps out, “It’s ‘ _please_ can I capture you’, not ‘come with me or die,’” from where he’s pinned under a large, brown haired man on the bed. Harry is struggling to breathe beneath one metal hand crushing his slender throat; the flesh hand is pressing something underneath Harry’s rucked-up shirt.

The man looks up as Tom arrives- his gaze is cold, empty- and tosses a handful of sparkling particles at him. Harry chokes, “No!” and flings a hand in Tom’s direction to stop them.

The man grabs for Harry’s arm but misses. Something winks into existence- he tracks the glint and catches it- Tom nonverbally _accios_ the man- Harry’s head jerks- the man’s metal hand lets go- his body flies across the room. 

Tom harnesses his fury. “ _Crucio_ ,“ he intones. The man, disturbingly, stays completely silent through the convulsions.

Harry will probably want to take care of this on his own. Tom stops the curse before the man goes insane and secures him: body bind, incarcerous, silencio, stupefy. The man is just a muggle, but nothing is too overkill for Harry’s safety. Especially with the muggles in this universe.

Tom crosses the room swiftly. His vision flashes red at how still Harry lays, at the ring of bruises encircling Harry’s neck- and though the marks on Harry’s skin are fading with Loki’s magic, Tom’s eidetic memory enables him to remember forever.

The glint is a necklace; that must have been why Harry’s neck had jerked so worryingly. Tom brings it to the light. It is a thin, dark chain with a flat pendant on the end: a line inside of a circle, which is fitted within a triangle. 

The Deathly Hallows.

Where is Death? 

Tom fingers strands of Harry’s hair. They’re still damp from the shower. Harry’sclumped eyelashes brush against his cheeks.

“This,” Loki says suddenly, and motions towards a thin, grey rectangle on the ground. 

Tom recognizes it with disdain. The same material had drained him of magic only a few weeks prior. Cold iron, its natural properties somehow enhanced. Some kind of ritual, probably; no spell-casting could achieve this on its own.

Harry stirs.

“You should stay,” Tom tells Loki.

Loki shakes his head, brushes some hair from Harry’s forehead. “Not so soon after this trauma.”

“Then when?” demands Tom, but Loki returns to cat-form in a green flash just before Harry opens his eyes.

Harry shudders and raises a hand to his throat. Tom clasps it before it touches the tender skin, surrounds Harry with magic in the hope that it’ll help with his magical exhaustion.

The cat curls up near Harry’s head, alert.

Harry’s brilliant eyes are unfocused and he’s shivering. Tom waves his free hand to repair the bed’s headboard and the nightstand, which had splintered before he’d arrived, and shifts Harry’s bare legs onto the bed. The blankets and pillows are also shredded and there are long incisions in the mattress- the stranger tied up in the corner is sporting some fading bruises and cuts. At least Harry put up a fight.

Harry‘s compliant as Tom prop him upright with pillows and draw the newly repaired blankets up to his chin.

He works his throat, makes no sound. Tom hands him a conjured glass of water. Harry’s hands can’t stay steady- finally, Tom takes over.

Harry licks his lips. “Glasses,” he croaks, gesturing to the floor beneath the nightstand. “Wand.”

Ah. 

Tom retrieves them. Miraculously, they’re both intact. 

“Lucius could correct your eyesight,” Tom tells Harry when his eyes finally focus. “These glasses are a liability.”

It’s as if he didn’t say anything at all. “I- I thought,” says Harry shakily, staring at the wand in his hands, as familiar to Tom as Tom’s own, “I thought HYDRA was- fine. Not a problem. It’s... been a while since I’ve been trounced so badly. Or even fought, at all. I thought I was done. The worst part is, is, I didn’t even realize how much I missed it.” The last part is whispered.

“Never mind that, you’ve always been an adrenaline junkie,” Tom says, suddenly furious. “Never mind that- you could have died!”

Harry startles out of his musing at this, peers up into Tom’s wide eyes. He must see the last vestiges of fear. Tom doesn’t want to know how he looks now, after panicking and using _crucio_ for the first time in a month. He’d kept the unforgivables to a minimum in this new world, as their use keeps his irises red longer with the high of Dark magic, and he wanted to blend in without magical glamours that short out anything electronic in his vicinity, without the liability of contacts.

“You were worried,” Harry breathes, surprise naked on his face.

Tom grips Harry’s hand tighter. “You could have died,” he repeats.

“Riddle,” Harry laughs, “you idiot. I’m the Master of Death, remember? Whenever I die, I just come back.”

“After how long?” says Tom.

Harry gapes at him. Then he smiles, a small, genuine one Tom hasn’t ever seen turned on him before. It’s a heady, addictive feeling. “Ah, you keep surprising me,” Harry says, “yeah, that’s right on the button. I can only come back after I’ve gathered enough magic to repair my body on my own, unless Death is free and can do it for me. So... I guess you’d be able to die permanently during that time.”

“I’ve been killed in this universe before. I know how it works.”

“That’s that, then,” says Harry, and he leans back on the pillows.

Tom twitches. “Harry. Your value to me is not only in your status and all that entails. I said before. I owe you a great debt. I do not go back on my word.”

“Only manipulate your word so it sometimes seems different than it is.”

“Well, yes,” Tom admits without shame. “But I am sincere in this endeavor. I would have you know. I would not do this for anybody else.” 

Harry sighs and pats their joined hands with his free one. “I know. I believe you.” He shifts. “You should have gone after whoever that was. He’s quick.”

“You’re more important,” Tom says, just to watch Harry’s countenance soften. Then, “I did incapacitate him. He’s in the corner, over there.”

“What!” Harry cranes his neck, then struggles to get out of bed. Tom pushes him back down. “Lemme see!”

“He is no threat anymore,” says Tom, sternly. “You need rest. Lay down.”

Harry doesn’t flail much, quickly deflates with the losing battle. Then he sits up again. “Don’t kill or torture him while I’m asleep,” Harry says, utterly serious.

“I will not.” Tom would chafe at following Harry’s word, but the _crucio_ is already out of his system. And Legilimency should be fine. “I left him alive for you.”

“Hmmm,” Harry mumbles, then something unintelligible.

Tom pushes another wave of magic around Harry. Harry visibly relaxes. Tom stares down at him for a moment. He can feel Death’s binding magic release a layer from his debt to Harry; yet he has only the desire to stay longer. A liability.

But Harry is _his_ , his horcrux, his gift... full of more ideas, the innovation of the magical community Tom had missed, startling humor at times. Tom couldn’t leave even if he’d wanted to.

He must tighten Harry’s protections, if their prisoner could have slipped through without his notice until the very last minute.

Loki hisses and transforms. “Riddle, the room, before it collapses on us.”

Tom snaps into reality. There’s damage to the structural integrity of the walls and ceiling, and the room is trashed- furniture in pieces, knives embedded in a wall and some on the floor next to the bed, bullet holes in the wall and ceiling, two handguns kicked into a corner. Tom hadn’t even registered it all, focused on Harry as he was. His and Loki’s boots must have protected their feet.

Tom recalls Harry a few days ago, smashing a tea cup out of frustration that he was ‘ _too weak, I can’t do anything anymore_!’. But judging by the destruction in the bedroom, and the fact that the prisoner is an enhanced, Harry can do plenty. And he took down his own wards while he was at it, which likely took an immense skill of split focus. Tom swallows his amusement; Harry’s standards may be higher than Severus’.

Once Tom and Loki have repaired the damage and sorted the knives and bullets into neat piles, they start picking out how the wards work so they can put them back up. Without the layer of sound blocking, of course.

Loki is watching Tom weave an extra layer in- he’d found the pattern in the Chamber of Secrets, long ago; it’s strong- when he asks, “Is Riddle your real name?”

“I know not your intentions with Harry,” responds Tom without missing a beat. “You know mine.”

“I altered the course of my fall from the Bifrost when I felt Harry’s magical flare. The form of a cat threw Heimdall off of my tail while I recovered enough magic to cloak myself; hiding in plain sight with Harry, who would draw Heimdall’s attention on his own, was a logical choice. Is Riddle your real name?”

Loki is not lying. Tom finishes the layer and its golden sheen sinks into the wall.“You are still here.”

“I would not repay my debt for Harry’s protection by leaving him with a potential enemy.” Tom waits. Loki adds, “I have plans to leave.” 

A moment. “Riddle is my given name,” concedes Tom. He warns, “Do not forget. Your secret is not mine to reveal, but Harry does not deserve your deception.”

“I heard you the first time,” Loki says, brow furrowed, turning away towards their prisoner. “Shall I?”

“I would rather hear it from the source,” says Tom, and taps his temple with a finger. Loki gives him an inscrutable look, then steps aside.

Tom strides over and relaxes the body bind. The prisoner’s eyes flicker over the room before Tom blocks Harry from view with his body and bends down, turns the prisoner’s face towards him with hand on his chin. Cool blue eyes meet his without fear- without any feeling at all.

“ _Legilimens_ ,“ Tom hisses.

Loki takes the opportunity to explore and improve Harry’s wardrobe.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry is not a morning person. There have been some exceptions to this in the past, when adrenaline forced him to be awake at unreasonable hours. Today, it seems, will be another exception.

“RIDDLE!” Harry yells.

Riddle skids into the room, wand out, tense.

Harry pokes his head around the door of the expanded closet, scowling. “What the _fuck_ is this?” And he steps into view holding a pair of really tight, ripped leather pants.

“Oh, don’t give me that confused face. I won’t be fooled,” continues Harry, gathering steam. “You’re the only one who could have done this. My _entire_ closet- all of my sweaters! Where are my normal pants? All of my stuff is- is-“ He leans back into the closet and pulls out a trench coat, eyes it. “No, this is actually a good one,” he mutters, and throws it on the bed. He pulls a pair of laced, heeled boots out next.

“This is what I’m talking about!” Harry jabs at the heels with a finger. “You calling me short or something?”

Riddle opens his mouth to respond- Harry steamrolls right over him.

“No, don’t answer that. I don’t get it! My clothes were perfectly fine- what brought this on?” Finally, he stops to breathe, looking at Riddle expectantly.

Riddle says, annoyed, “I’m not covering for you.”

Before Harry can ask ‘who?’, another man steps around the frame of the bedroom door. The man’s pale cheeks flush as he takes in Harry’s state of undress, and he quickly steps back out again.

“Riddle. He’s not wearing pants,” he says, his voice slightly muffled for being aimed away from Harry. “Does it not affect you at all?”

“Spare me from your propriety,” says Riddle, rolling his eyes. “The ill-fitted shirt covers everything it needs to.”

“I’m not going in unless he’s dressed,” the stranger insists.

“Well, I’m going out, then,” Harry decides, and marches for the door.

Riddle bars him with a forearm to his chest. He leans down and whispers loudly, “Raised as royalty. Think of Draco Malfoy.”

There’s a loud sound of indignation from the hallway. “Me! Like that ponce!” A step sounds, then, “Give it up, Riddle, you aren’t baiting me.”

Harry, catching on, snickers and tilts his face upwards. “I see exactly what you mean,” he says mischievously.

Riddle senses him gearing up for a prank. “Not now,” he says. “Later.”

“Alright,” nods Harry, plans flying through his eyes, and allows himself to be turned around by the shoulders and pushed back into the closet. Riddle rummages around for a moment, magically producing an inoffensive pair of black jeans. Harry pulls them on while Riddle’s buried in the shirts. 

“Here,” says Riddle, and hands him a bright red sweatshirt. Harry frowns at it.

“No animals?”

Riddle’s lips quirks upwards. He’s used to Harry’s tastes by now; he doesn’t bother arguing, waves a hand. The sweatshirt enlarges itself, fat fireflies appearing on its back. They’re so chubby they’re wobbling midair.

Harry approves happily and tugs it over his head.

When they emerge from the room, the stranger’s back is to them.

“Er, sorry about that,” Harry says. “Who’re you, what are you doing here, I’m assuming not to finish off the job?” He jokingly touches a hand to his throat when the man turns around.

The man’s sharp, mint gaze is very familiar. He raises an aristocratic eyebrow. “That was not in the new wardrobe,” he comments, his voice impossibly fond.

Harry can only exclaim, “Cat! What!”

“Ta-da,” says Loki, wryly, and the whole story comes out.

Loki finishes talking, and falls very still. Harry stands awkwardly in the hallway staring at him.

He says the first thing that comes to mind. “I guess that explains why you liked tea so much. I thought it was a cat thing.”

Riddle huffs in amusement behind him.

“Wait!” Harry suddenly shouts. Loki tenses from where he’d slumped slightly in relief. “Death told Heimdall we weren’t hiding anything from him!” 

“Technically...” says Loki, his eyes shifting, “technically, Asgard thinks I’m dead.”

“What!” Harry says. He grabs Tom and Loki’s wrists and drags them down the hall. “Tell me over tea, okay? And if you need help or anything, I’ll repay you for your companionship.” Harry looks back meaningfully.

Loki’s expression is mildly confused and panicked, and Riddle has a warning in his face. Too late- Harry has turned into the kitchen.

“That’s the Asset,” Riddle informs Harry belatedly as he gapes at the assassin formerly sent after him, casually sitting at his kitchen table.

**Hp Hp Tmr**

So it turns out that formerly brainwashed assassins are pretty handy to have around when they’re not moping or going through Riddle’s Legilimency therapy. Later in the day, Harry drops by Hurst and Martha’s to tell them that James- he’d wanted a different name than ‘Bucky,’ which he’d used before- James will be helping him with the repair jobs.

“Oh, how delightful!” Martha says, and pinches James’ cheeks. Then she hits Harry with a disapproving look reminiscent of Molly Weasley’s. “Dear, do drop by more often.” And she sends a guilty Harry off with a plate of cookies.

Riddle decides to stay with Harry and Loki for a few days, just in case, so he’s still present when Death’s chill settles over them in the evening.

“Hi, Death,” Harry greets around a mouthful of noodles.

 _Hello, Harry,_ responds Death. The weight of its regard settles on Loki for a moment, then on Riddle, who is fuming.

“Would you abandon Harry in every hour of need?” Riddle demands.

Death seems to have expected this reaction. _I am not to meddle in the plans of Fate,_ it says, solemn. _To stay and watch Harry be harmed would greatly test my control. It is too much of a risk. I may only hope that my absence serves as an advanced warning for him._

“But he is your master!” says Riddle hotly, and by now Loki is also looking to Death. Harry watches Riddle with a sort of awe.

 _You forget your place,_ Death’s rasp admonishes. Riddle subsides, frustrated. Loki’s eyes are wide. Death continues, _You are partially mistaken. Harry is no Master of mine, though I might address him as such. His role was decided when I was yet young, and lonely: to accompany me until the end of time, when his death shall signify mine. For what is Death without life? That he chooses to walk among mortals still is his choice. I cannot interfere._

Riddle regards Death with new eyes. Loki’s head is turned towards Harry, who is looking away.

Finally, Riddle says, “Where is HYDRA?”

_I cannot tell you._

“You cannot tell me. James’ memories have shown me nothing of import, and my spies know nothing.” A muscle jumps in Riddle’s jaw. “How should I honor my promise to you, and to Harry, when I have not the means to eliminate this greatest threat?”

Harry slams his palms on the table, rattling the plates and silverware. The green of his eyes is made more startling by the tears collecting at their corners. “Stop! Stop it!”

And Riddle looks shocked.

“Just. Leave it alone, okay?” Harry swipes at his eyes. “Leave Death the fuck alone. We’ve already had this argument. Don’t take it out on Death. Nothing’s anybody’s fault.” He stands and stalks out of the room.

Riddle and Loki make to stand as well. Death stops them.

 _He is guilty_ , says Death, sorrowful. _The wizarding world. He could do nothing as the muggle explosives obliterated both the wizarding communities and the muggle’s own. As I could not._

 _An entire world_ , Death mourns, and Loki flinches as if slapped.

The room is silent. It stays silent when Death leaves.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

The next day Harry acts cheery, as if nothing happened. He bustles about cooking breakfast the muggle way with red-rimmed eyes.

Loki has disappeared to who knows where, though he claimed to be returning. Tom worries.

“Harry,” he tries again. “I can postpone the mission if you need time.” 

But Harry’s stubborn. “No, I can do it today. Stop worrying so much, alright?” He smiles at Tom, a little wobbly.

Tom subsides. He’ll be here, anyway, just in case.

It’s the early afternoon when a faint knock sounds at the front door. Harry doesn’t spare the time to wonder who it might be. He sprints to get it. Tom follows sedately behind.

Sure enough, somebody’s bleeding out on the welcome mat. Harry pulls them into his flat, _scourgifies_ the blood, and shuts the door quickly.

“Snape!” he says in surprise, catching a glimpse of a hooked nose beneath the shiny black hair.

Severus wheezes, “Second floor girl’s bathroom, beneath the taps,” and passes out.

Tom keeps his face tellingly blank as Harry gives him an incredulous look. He hadn’t lost his sense of humor with age. As Voldemort, he’d be subtle and commanding, crack a joke, and dare his followers to guess if he was serious or not. As Riddle the underground power in New York, he’s just ridiculous, and nobody calls him out on it because they’re all wimps. And he can be terrifying when he wants to.

Harry runs a few diagnostics- luckily Severus has only been grazed a few times- and levitates Severus to the guest bedroom he’d set up in the morning. Everything seems fine, so Tom returns to the kitchen and his work.

**Ss Ss Ss**

Severus Snape stares up at the ceiling. He’s not sure when he transitioned from asleep to awake, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s seen Harry again. The vivid green of those eyes- he’d almost forgotten, the Lily in his memories faded.

Suddenly, sunny yellow words bloom across the blank white space. Severus squints to read them; yellow on white is not a good combination.

“You will die from radiation poisoning if you are able to eat 10,000,000 bananas at once!”

Below that, in smaller print:

“You may also witness chronic symptoms if you eat 274 bananas a day for seven years.”

And below that, images of bananas arranged into a smiley face. The yellow fades away.

After a longer period of time, yellow flowers bloom into existence, accompanied by the text, “Don’t eat Gelsemine, no matter how nice the flowers look! Seizures and convulsions is not a fun way to go.”

Severus watches the flowers bloom in and out for a few minutes. The door opens to admit Harry. 

“You’re awake!” Harry waves. “You should be fully healed, but tell me if anything twinges. Bathroom’s over there, and clothes are on the toilet seat.Come and get breakfast when you’re ready.” He closes the door.

Harry looks... healthy. Severus relaxes on the bed, and breathes out.

He eats breakfast leaning against the countertop, speaking little, taking in Harry’s features every so often.

The doorbell rings. Harry runs to get it. On the welcome mat is Deadpool, missing one leg, but at least not spraying blood everywhere.

“Hey, kid! Mind if I crash?”

“Just because we‘re friends doesn’t mean leeching off of me at the slightest opportunity is a nice thing to do,” Severus hears Harry informing Deadpool while Harry rummages in the fridge to hand over a juice box. Deadpool makes gimme motions. Harry sighs theatrically.

Loki scoffs from the kitchen table, which he has appropriated and buried in pages of neat notes in a coded foreign language. “Like you would kick Wilson out.”

Harry, starting to reheat frozen tacos, looks to Deadpool for the inevitable response. Deadpool pulls up the bottom of his mask and points into his open mouth, where a stump of tongue wriggles. Severus can see it already healing, growing out. He immediately looks away. He really doesn’t want to know what Deadpool got up to. 

“That’s disgusting,” says Harry. “I did not need to see that. Loki, don’t look.”

Loki looks. “That is disgusting. I did not need to see that.”

Harry laughs. Loki is too engrossed in his notes to notice. Deadpool waggles his eyebrows and is no help at all. Severus returns to his own apartment with a lighter heart, not really angry though the proof of his Lord’s meddling is undeniable.

**Ts Ts Ts**

Tony Stark, hacker extraordinaire, had been uneasy leaving the another-random-guy-somehow-appeared-out-of-nowhere situation to Fury, who wasn’t getting results. It hadn’t been that big of a deal until Tony moved to New York.

So he’s carrying his briefcase armor on the doorstep of a hovel on a crappy side of the city, wondering if this ‘Harry’ guy seriously lives _here_ when he can possibly teleport and, apparently, blow out cameras and knock out SHIELD agents while sleeping in his hospital bed on the other side of the door.

“No presences detected, sir,” JARVIS tells him through his earpiece, so Tony doesn’t bother to mask the clunk of his boots. Now is the time for Serious Mode. He kicks the door open.

His first thought is that this dude is either appallingly neglectful or doesn’t live here at all. The light switch doesn’t work, but the natural light from the doorway and two windows is enough to navigate by.

His second thought is- GUH!

The wind is knocked out of him as he’s tackled into a wall. What the hell?

“If you pin me any harder the wall is going to give,” Tony informs the snarling face spitting onto his mask.

He’s about to retaliate when there are some light footsteps. As if at some signal, the hulking mass in front of him moves back to reveal a stick. A wooden stick, pointed at him. 

The stick is held loosely by long fingers, which are attached to a bare arm, which is attached to a rather attractive body. Tony can tell mainly because the torso is shirtless. But-

“Are you threatening me with a _stick_?” 

“Please state your business,” Shirtless Guy demands politely, which he wasn’t aware anyone other than Coulson and “Natalie” could pull off this perfectly, even Pepper. It could be the British accent, yet Tony has a hunch that it’s a little more the unhurried tone combined with the aura of barely restrained murder.

The looming guy who had committed violence against his person glares at him from Shirtless Guy’s side while Tony panics mildly, because JARVIS should never have been wrong, but he is. There are two other people in this room.

“I’m just here to chat with ‘Harry,’” Tony says carefully. Gods help him, but he’s feeling seriously threatened by a stick. Thinking quickly, he adds, “I heard he could fix impossible things.” 

The metal barrel of a gun presses against the back of his head. Tony’s eyes widen. JARVIS hadn’t warned him, which meant that whoever is behind him is scarily skilled.

“Easy, now,” another British accent sounds from behind him, and the gun is taken away. ‘Harry,’ recognizable by his messy hair and short, wiry frame, steps between Tony and Shirtless Guy. A much larger man shadows him and positions himself between Tony and Harry, angling a shiny metal arm towards Tony. The handgun dangles in his other hand. Harry’s voice is cautious. “Riddle, what’s going on?”

“Tony Stark claims to be here to see you, get something fixed,” Shirtless Guy, Riddle, says steadily. “He lies.”

Harry turns around to peer at Tony. Riddle steps up behind him, while the violent one lurks in the background and the metal armed man keeps his body between them. Harry’s eyes are startlingly green.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come in! I’ll get some tea on.”

Riddle and the violent one follow him in, Riddle saying lowly, “Harry, are you sure?”

“He can’t harm me anyway- you’re such a worrywart.” Harry’s voice fades around the corner.

This is where Pepper would tell him to use some common sense, but Tony’s curious. Also, the metal armed man prods him with the gun, cold blue eyes blank, and Tony doesn’t want to find out what exactly he can do.

Tony has the surreal experience of a very tense tea time, during which Harry dodges his questions with the weirdest answers, reassures him that he means no harm to the public, and sends him off with biscuits. Since Harry shows none of the edge that those who mean or are trained to mean harm do, or even that those who fight do, Tony is inclined to believe him. There’s just this aura of comfortable honesty about him...

Since Harry’s been here all this time and SHIELD didn’t find anything, Tony supposes it’s safe to just keep a watch on him. The people around him seem dangerous, and strange, but he quickly forgets about them, never suspecting that magic might actually be real and influencing his thoughts. He doesn’t notice that the lights in the kitchen ceiling float midair, nowhere near actual lightbulbs.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

Harry steps back from the new hallway and watches with satisfaction as it fades into the wall. James puts his palm to the wall again, awed when the hallway jumps back into view.

“Food, weapons, gear, workspace- you should be all set!” Harry beams at James.

Later, Harry’s pacing around Tom’s new office, Tom decides it’s time to bring it up.

“Harry.”

“I’m so _bored_ ,“ Harry whines. “James basically took over my job. I finished his wing, and your office, and Loki’s office and rooms. I can’t just bake all day! Or read, or anything else. And, no offense. I can’t duel with everybody all day either. It’s super exhausting. It’s nice to spar again, but I wanna do something different! And I’ve already walked up and down New York.”

At least Harry identifies his own restlessness well. Of course, Tom is prepared. 

“SHIELD has an opening,” Tom says nonchalantly, turning the page of Lucius’ report. “As a trainer for some high level agents, who each are enhanced in some way.” He pulls the folder of profiles from beneath the report. “Here. It’ll be like your Auror training.”

Harry takes the manila folder and starts flipping through. “Riddle, wow, thanks.”

“Just stay safe,” says Tom. “It’s fine if they get some of your blood or samples- your magic protects it- but check for bugs before you come here.” He loosely grasps Harry’s wrist, waits for Harry to look back at him. “Take Fenrir with you.”

A protest stills on Harry’s lips as his eyes flick over whatever is in Tom’s face.

“I will,” Harry promises. Then, sincerely, “thank you.”

Tom breaks eye contact and leans back. “Good. But you don’t have the job yet- you have to apply and interview. You’re competing with highly experienced trainers, often former agents themselves. Good luck.”

Tom looks up again to see Harry’s competitive spirit light up his eyes as Harry leaves the room muttering. Tom smirks to himself, turning back to Lucius’ report, feeling another layer of his oath-debt falling away.

**Hp Hp Nf**

At SHIELD’s facility, after a mediocre series of skill tests, probably designed to induce overconfidence for the last interview test, Harry loses his temper against his interviewer. Probably because she’s a gorgeous redhead who exists to be aggravating. 

“I can see your Director and your handler and your partner in the window,” Harry hisses, leaning forward aggressively, eyes flashing. “I did not get in shape and come all the way here to be _rejected_.“

Nick Fury circles Harry’s name on the other side of the one-way window before Natasha, in the interview room, makes the hand-sign to hire. Harry had passed their notoriously difficult tests with flying colors.

“Congratulations,” Maria Hill says to him. “Though he’s another crazy idiot, so it might be better to offer condolences.”

Phil Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose. Natasha leans back in the room and lets her annoying facade drop.

She and Clint say, “Finally, someone who’s not an imbecile,” at the same time. Harry one-eighties to cheerful and friendly.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

A few days later, on the doorstep, Riddle brushes past a black-clad agent wearing the dumb, belated surprise many tend to don after prolonged exposure to any of Harry’s more playful moods. Probably an official informant, because even though even Riddle knows by now, what with the rumors flying around SHIELD, Director Fury follows traditional protocols like house visits for interview results. 

Riddle shakes the snow from his coat, hangs it up, and leaves his boots by the door. His toes tingle, warming up. He doesn’t lie to himself; he knows full well that it is fondness lighting up his chest as he strides towards the kitchen.

“You’re hired, I assume?” Riddle greets Harry. Harry whirls around from the stove, gleeful. Riddle worries, he really does. For Harry, and for himself- for that warmth blooming in him at Harry’s flushed cheeks, wide smile, sparkling eyes.

“Assume has ass in it,” Harry tells Riddle.

Riddle is unimpressed.

Harry tries to wrangle his face into something more somber. By Riddle’s expression, Harry fails abysmally. “Asses ASSume,” he says seriously, then breaks into laughter.

Riddle shuffles to the stove to hide his faint smile.

Harry’s bright guffaws peter out and he wipes at his eyes. “But yeah,” he says, and Riddle looks back, “you’re right.” Harry looks so happy to have a purpose again.

Riddle’s heartbeat thumps.

He doesn’t look away this time as the corners of his lips curl upwards. He says, “They won’t know what hit them.” 

Harry cackles.

**BONUS: where did Loki go?**

Loki breathes in the ancient smell of the New York Sanctum. He’s teleported in front of a cozy armchair and he immediately starts pacing.

“Stephen,” he says, and Stephen Strange sets aside his tome once he sees Loki’s harried countenance. “Was I wrong?”

Stephen, bless his heart, responds diplomatically. ‘’The world is not black and white, Loki.”

“No, not that,” Loki says, and sinks into an adjacent armchair, puts his head in his hands. “Was I wrong to destroy the Jotuns with the power of the Bifrost? Harry, he’s been having me thinking-“

“Now I’m concerned,” says Stephen, “you overthink everything.” Loki glares. “What’s done is done, Loki. You didn’t succeed. We could imagine a thousand could-have-beens that would do nothing to change the now.”

Loki raises his head. “The Eye of Agamotto-“

“- is not something to be used lightly,” Stephen interrupts, stern. “I will give you this. From your perspective it was the logical thing to do. But the destroying of an entire people can never be defined by logic alone; the balance of life must be maintained, and inevitably it would bring loss to many.”

“So I was wrong,” breathes Loki. His worst fears, confirmed.

“Did you not listen to a single thing I just said?” Stephen says, exasperated. “You are extremely intelligent. Without factoring in moral or emotional cost, you chose an elegant solution. You are not to blame for moral messiness. It is unhealthy to live in the past.”

Loki’s head drops back into his hands. “You dither here and there, with nary a straight answer to a simple question.”

“It is a complicated question,” Stephen counters. He hands Loki the tome he had been reading. “I have faith that you will figure it out. In the meanwhile, help me decipher this passage; it is illegible!”

Loki lets out a startled laugh, and takes the tome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bypass The Words:  
> eventually this child of mine will be fatter than Harry’s sweatshirt fireflies, mark my words
> 
> Extras:  
> • There are literally so many males here. Like where the women at? Next chapter, guys, next chapter  
> • WOULD ANYBODY LIKE TO BE MY BETA? HOW DOES ONE LOOK FOR A BETA?  
> • I have a vague feeling I should... advertise? I’m tired, though... so if y’all really like my writing, sharing is caring! :D i’d appreciate it lots <3
> 
> Up Next:  
> Fury: can already hear Harry Potter berating his agents about noodles


	5. Professor Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YOUR BODIES ARE LIKE UNCOOKED NOODLES. VERY FRAGILE. BRITTLE.  
> WE MuST COOk THE NOODLES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are much go
> 
> warning for subtle sexual harassment (not between Harry and Riddle)

5 Professor Potter

**Hp Nf Fg**

Harry shuffles into the kitchen, yawning, guided with a warmth at the small of his back. A mug of tea appears in his hand; he doesn’t question the benevolence of the gods and knocks it back, then lets it go. He watches the mug fall toward the ground apathetically before it’s caught by a long-fingered hand. It’s a nice hand. Large yet nimble, smooth skin over defined muscles and bones and faint veins. 

The mug returns with more tea. Harry knocks that back, too. 

Somehow a sweater is pulled over his head. Fingers patiently work his tangled hair apart from the yarn when it gets caught. They’re nice fingers, thinks Harry, as he continues on his path to… to…

He stops and stares at the cold tile beneath his bare feet, confused. 

Warm arms reach around Harry’s hips from behind, deftly tie the drawstring of his pants before they fall. They tug the sweater- a bright yellow- over his waistband. Harry turns his head- the source of the breath on his ear is a face. 

That’s not what he needs. Where’s the tea?

“Harry, stay still,” a familiar voice murmurs. 

“Tea,” Harry slurs, but he obediently allows the nice warmth to manhandle him. Harry’s eyelids droop briefly, and then he’s slumped over the kitchen table, cradling the mug in his hands. The steam curling up from it is heavenly.

He dimly registers somebody say incredulously, “Why do you even bother? He notices no difference when he is a zombie.”

A different voice- Wade’s- says slyly, “He’s an _attractive_ zombie, isn’t he, Riddle?”

“He requires care,” responds Riddle, curt, “not lust.”

“Dodging the question,” the first voice says with a flourish; Loki, probably. 

Harry raises his attention from his mug. “Why’m I ‘wake?”

James watches in fascination as Riddle visibly steels himself. “Harry,” he says, “your first session at SHIELD begins in twenty minutes.”

Harry springs out of his chair, wide awake. “I haven’t even eaten breakfast!” 

Riddle raises an eyebrow. Harry looks down; he sees the empty plate at his place on the table in astonishment. He’s also wearing his combat pants, socks, boots, his third favorite yellow octopus sweater, and his heavy trench coat is buttoned halfway. Running a panicked hand through his hair, he discovers that it has somehow been combed. 

“I- impossible,” he stutters.

“Eighteen minutes,” Riddle reminds him, sounding quite smug. “SHIELD’s inefficient security alone takes thirteen minutes to process.”

Harry sprints. Riddle stops him at the front door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says meaningfully. 

“What?” 

“Harry. You’re a wizard.” 

“Oh, right, yeah.” Harry’s sluggish brain catches up to his body. He tugs his holly wand out of the pendant at his throat. 

Riddle turns back into the flat. Harry hears him say under his breath, “Honestly. I don’t know _how_ he survived before I came along. Utter buffoon,” before Harry apparates away.

Fenrir Greyback is waiting for him on the other side of security, tapping his foot. “Took long enough,” he complains gruffly, and falls into step with Harry towards meeting room 11A.

“Stop glaring,” Harry says, smiling and waving at a black clad agent who presses to the wall as they pass, “you’re scaring them all away!”

Greyback grunts. “That’s the point.”

“So anti social,” Harry mourns. Then he brightens quickly. “Don’t worry! We’ll fix that. Oh, I have _so_ many plans, you wouldn’t believe...”

“We’re going to be late,” says Greyback, lengthening his stride. Harry trots to keep up, still talking.

He pushes open the meeting room door and exclaims, “We’re not late! See!” Greyback contemplates a future in which he has to listen to Harry prattle on for more than five minutes at a time, and shudders.

Fury’s one eye pins Harry with his stare, weighty with disapproval. “Harry Potter,” he says with gravity, “twenty minutes early is considered ‘on time.’ Arriving as the meeting starts is _late._ ”

Harry shrugs, unaffected. _Draco_ had had a better ‘weighty stare of disapproval’ than that. “I can’t be late to a meeting about me,” says Harry. Seeing Fury open his mouth, Harry continues hastily, “So, who’s this?”

“You don’t remember me?” the gorgeous woman at the table questions, an eyebrow raised. 

“You could have been a twin or something,” says Harry. He sticks out a hand. “I never know, with redheads. Pleasure. I’m Harry.”

“Agent Natasha Romanoff. Code name Black Widow.” Her grip is firm. Harry thinks of Ginny, but Ginny was shorter, louder, warmer.

Fury clears his throat, reclaiming attention. “Potter. Agent Romanoff will be overseeing your first two weeks on the job-“ 

“Patience!” Harry interrupts. “We haven’t introduced Greyback yet, and he needs social time!” He drags Greyback out of the shadows near the wall, where he had been lurking.

A vein throbs at Fury’s temple. “Potter.”

Harry pouts until Greyback and Romanov shake hands, then turns innocently back to Fury. “Yes, Boss?” he enquires politely. 

“Agent Romanoff,” Fury repeats, deliberately slow to keep Harry’s fleeting attention, “will be overseeing your first two weeks. During these weeks, you will be shadowing an experienced trainer. If you perform well, you will be given a general class of your own and several agents to work with individually.” He notices that Harry’s attention has wandered to the ceiling. “Potter. Potter.” 

“Wha?” 

By now, Greyback is also staring upwards. Romanoff is the only one still looking at him, but even she isn’t paying attention. Fury is sure that something is up there, probably Agent Barton judging by Potter’s scandalized expression and Greyback’s amusement, but he’s not going to suffer the indignity of knowing just what Agent Barton is signing about him now. He files the note that both Potter and Greyback know sign language away for later.

Fury gives the meeting up as a lost cause. Barton’s not going to stop until he and Romanoff are brushing shoulders. 

“Potter.”

Harry finally tears his gaze away. He tilts his head, questioning, and Fury suddenly sees how disarmingly cute he is. It’s the eyes. It has to be the eyes. 

“Get the hell outta here and go teach,” Fury sighs, Harry’s inattention and tardiness forgotten. Harry beams and leaves. 

As soon as room 11A’s door closes behind Fenrir, the man with the crude language drops down beside Romanoff. Harry admires his muscled arms and the bow on his back, notes the hearing aids, then pulls Greyback with him further ahead to give the two agents some privacy. He’d seen Romanov limping slightly, though hiding it very well; he’ll offer to heal it after the man has had the chance to properly worry over her- so she can tell him off, of course. 

“So, Greyback,” he says inanely to give the pair more privacy, “you know how I love sweaters? Well, you do now. The other day, Riddle gave me a bunch more! He’s nice like that sometimes. Other times, he’s not so nice… anyway, this one is from him! I’m wearing it now,” Harry wriggles out of his coat, “look, it’s like the octopus is hugging me, see?”

He spins around while still moving towards the training facilities. Greyback is simultaneously regretting his life choices- an octopus, really, and the yellow is way too bright- and hoping that Harry won’t tell him any more about Riddle’s… sweater making tendencies. His life is upside down as it is, without the revelation that Riddle has fuzzy feelings. 

He thinks back to standing uncomfortably by as Riddle regurgitated an entire confession and meaningful promise to the cheery fellow who is currently twirling around like an idiot. He would be more skeptical that Harry had actually managed to murder anybody if he hadn’t been completely trounced in a duel just a few days ago. He learned a lot- Riddle is an incredible teacher, easily breaking down mistakes and simply explaining a broad swath of difficult concepts, but Harry moves on an instinctual level that Greyback wouldn’t believe if he hadn’t seen it for himself. Harry taught him much- and then Harry moved even faster, and Greyback was trounced again. 

Watching Harry and his Lord duel, Greyback suddenly understood why the prophecy proclaimed them ‘equal’- not equal in knowledge or instinct, but equal parts in a _whole_ that made no sense until it was put together. Riddle brings out the edge in Harry. Harry brings out the hotheadedness in Riddle.

The edge to Harry- unnoticeable unless Harry chooses to show it, which makes Harry all the more worthy of an opponent. It’s the only reason Greyback allows Harry to continue chattering away. 

During the class itself, Greyback’s brief glimpses of this edge are what tell him that the experienced trainer Harry is shadowing is a bad one. On the surface, the instructor is exactly as expected: skilled, and good enough at spotting mistakes; however, certain alarm bells Greyback can’t see are setting Harry’s nerves on end.

Greyback fingers his wand, stays close.

The class, standard sized at ten agents, has finished its workout; Harry and Greyback have exercised with them. The instructor has not. The instructor declares that since Harry is new, they should demonstrate an advanced spar. 

“Unless you’re too afraid?” the instructor dares loftily. His glance flickers over Harry, who is catching his breath, stretched out on the ground. Only because Greyback is looking for it does he notice the hungry depth of the gaze, quickly hidden.

Romanoff and Barton, sitting in the rafters, see it too. Barton nods at Greyback when he notices him looking up; Romanoff remains impassive. Greyback hopes that somebody takes care of this before Riddle catches wind of it. His Lord’s fury is cruel, justified though it may be.

Once Harry can speak without panting, he does. “Sure,” he agrees easily, “anything for the students, right?”

“Of course,” the instructor purrs.

The agents claim the floor against a wall as the instructor leans down to help Harry up. His grip crushes Harry’s smaller hand, and that was definitely a grope, though Harry shows no sign of noticing, smiling as usual. Greyback barely restrains himself from snarling. It’s his respect for Harry that stops him. Harry will take care of this himself.

Greyback moves out of the way, and they spar. The instructor strikes first with a soft punch and dodge. Harry blocks and disengages. Mettle tested, they circle each other. The instructor lashes out, and they begin to fight in earnest. 

Or at least, the instructor is fighting in earnest. Harry is not using magic, and moves at barely three quarters of his speed. Most of the agents are awed; Greyback notes those who are not and those avoid watching the instructor. Harry will want to know. 

Greyback sucks in a breath when the instructor catches Harry’s thin wrist and smirks, but Harry somehow turns it around and flips the instructor over his shoulder. Harry makes a motion unfamiliar to Greyback, and instead of smacking against the ground, the instructor lands jerkily on his feet, facing Harry. 

His smirk has disappeared. 

Harry shakes his hand cheerfully. “Good spar,” he says, grinning. “Hope that landing wasn’t too jarring.” There’s a lazy sort of warning hooded under his long lashes.

The instructor doesn’t notice it, or doesn’t heed it. The hungry depth in his eyes twists as he looks down at Harry’s lips, and he squeezes Harry’s hand one last time before letting go, his own mouth pressed in a thin line.

The next day, when Greyback follows Harry to the training facilities, the instructor is nowhere in sight.

“You did a good thing,” Greyback tells Harry before they enter.

“Couldn’t have another Vernon Dursley out and about, now,” Harry says quietly, that edge in his eyes. Greyback thinks, _I should tell Riddle_.

“I think… I’m not as good at reading as you. But I think Fish and Mile were affected. And Hunt should be in a better class.”

“Thank you, Fenrir,” says Harry, even though he probably already knows. He’s kind like that. Riddle would say _I know_. And… Greyback hasn’t used his first name in a while. Harry probably noticed. It sounds good.

“Fenrir,” he rumbles to himself, and Harry pretends he doesn’t hear. 

Instead, Harry rubs his hands together gleefully. “So, you remember Moody? What a legend. We’ve got to do him justice, Fenrir.”

That’s how Grey- Fenrir ends up walking into the room on his own. He nods at Romanoff and Barton up in the rafters, suppressing the twitch of his lips at the combination of Barton’s obscene gesture and Romanoff’s blank face. “Hey, kiddos,” he says. 

“Where’s Trainer West?” Fish pipes up.

“Gone,” Grey- Fenrir says. “Harry’s your trainer now. I’ll be helping him.” Not that Harry really needs the help. Fenrir is really only here for Riddle’s peace of mind.

The agents are too good to murmur amongst themselves, but Fenrir catches some surreptitious handsigns.

“He’s not late, just delayed,” says Fenrir, and a few of them jump. 

The door swings open. Heads swivel. Harry appears behind them while they're looking the other way and roars, “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

In the ensuing chaos, somebody topples over, bringing down most of the group. Harry avoids all of the projectiles except for the lone paintball.

He breaks down laughing with the orange paint in his hair. It’s infectious. After a long moment of hilarity, Harry wipes at the corner of his eyes.

“What a great stress reliever,” says Harry. Then claps his little hands together, the sound muffled by the sweater that leaves only his fingertips exposed. It’s green ants today. “Okay! Let’s get down to business. I have only three rules. Call me Harry, be kind, work hard! Having fun is not a rule because it’s a given that we will. Now. Who here has heard of the Noodle Speech?”

Fenrir exhales slowly before he says, “They’re not Aurors, Harry.”

“Shush, I’m not starting over with my legacy, I already have one,” Harry says, indignant. He leans in and whispers loudly to the class that already looks half in love with him (Fish in particular is starry eyed). “Don’t listen to that grump. He’s on permanent PMS. I’ll be teaching you how not to end up like him. Except for the fighting part, of course- he’s an excellent fighter.”

Fenrir has a sudden vision of how Harry inspired so much loyalty against the terrifying figure of Voldemort.

“The Noodle Speech!” Harry proclaims, excited, pacing up and down the length of the room. “Every Auror trainee heard about it. Veteran Aurors heard it, and each time were made the stronger for it. This I guarantee, for stories have magical power. Would you like to listen?”

“Yeah,” Fish breathes. Even Hunt looks interested.

Harry settles in his skin. The difference between his usual flitting attention and this Harry’s scary focus is startling. The vivid green of his eyes is… bright. 

“Back in my world,” Harry begins, “children would grow up hearing about the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the one who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I did defeat him. Seven times to the death. More. Some asked why, how. This is how. I never gave this to the papers, and whichever part you hear, I ask of you to refer to it only as the Noodle Speech.

“I began my life as soft, sweet dough. I was loved, and I loved in return. This is a blessing for anyone lucky enough to receive it.” He pauses in remembrance, then moves on. “My parents sacrificed themselves to save me from a mass murderer, and I was dropped on the doorstep of my aunt and uncle and baby cousin. The Dursleys stretched me. Vernon Dursley stretched me with his belt and his beer bottles. Petunia Dursley stretched me with the hot stovetop, the garden shears, and Dudley stretched me with his bare fists. The neglect stretched me the most.”

Fenrir has never heard of this before. He remembers his obsession with targeting children, wanting so badly for others to feel the same hurt he had felt; nothing filled the void in his heart. An image of young Harry, mangled, flashes before him- and he’d felt regret before, that’s how Riddle caught him in the afterlife before he’d passed on and marked him, how he’d established this new life, but this kind of regret is like none other. It swells in that void suddenly. He holds a hand to his heart, shocked.

Harry’s voice is measured, his eyes steady, enthralling. He talks about Hogwarts, about Voldemort, about boiling and evaporating and drying and salting, tasting good and tasting bad, and Fenrir hears none of it. His heart is beating. Beating.

Harry finishes, “Ritual complete.” The glow fades out of his eyes. Fenrir snaps out of his trance.

“What was that?” demands Fenrir, his voice rough. “What was that?” His hand still holds his heart. He doesn’t want to let it go, for fear of losing it. The care. The hurt, the healing hurt.

“Oh,” Harry smiles, “something of a pseudo- ritual I made by accident back in the day. The people I target hear what they need to hear. Everybody has something holding them back, and the Noodle Speech tends to break through those.”

Fenrir chuckles brokenly. “Tends to break through those, indeed. My heart…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” says Harry, soft. “It lasts.”

(Fish says, his eyes wide, “I heard about how we can train like noodles. Did everybody hear something different?”

“Training? I didn’t hear anything about training. All I heard about was being boiled and hunted!”)

The next time Fenrir reports to Riddle, Riddle wants to spar. “You’re faster, more fluid,” Riddle says, surprised.

“I have a heart,” says Fenrir, no less wondrous this time than the first, “a good one.”

**Nf Nf Nf**

Romanoff stands straight backed in front of his desk. 

“... and… he talked about noodles for an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This had a profound effect on the class. And you.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Noodles. Affected you.”

“... Yes, sir. I would like to add that he approached the mid level group with enthusiasm. I saw no hesitation for being assigned a lower level group than his job description. He seems happy to teach. And the agents seem happy to learn. In fact, they are improving remarkably.”

“A strong commendation.”

“For a strong man, sir.”

“What about the Avengers initiative?”

Natasha’s eyebrows lower a little, her equivalent of a heavy sigh. “He would probably say,” and here she imitates Harry, eerily accurate, “‘I’ve saved the world enough! This is to destress!’ But if push comes to shove, I think he would step up. And then we would have Riddle and his resources as well.”

Fury waits until she leaves, then cradles his head in his hands. Hill walks in, sees him, and departs swiftly with the report tucked under her arm and a bottle of whiskey left on his desk.

This is why she’s his favorite. (Coulson gives him too much backtalk.)

**G G G**

Nothing is sacred anymore, not even the coffee machine. Gopher knows the breakroom has always been a gossipy hellhole, but the coffee machine used to be sacred. Its corner was sacred. The unspoken rule was: one does not disturb the coffee machine corner and wake the wrath of the addicted.

The unspoken rule has changed.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Fish yells, then continues sprinting down the hall. Seeing as this is the twentieth time she’s passed the breakroom on her laps, no one startles.

Gopher just wants her coffee. She has run out of wrath. Just, please, coffee.

Harry and his chaos wander in, then out.

Coffee.

Hunt, having been moved up to Gopher’s group, muses during afternoon break, “Riddle and Harry are both individually terrifying- imagine if they worked together!” 

Gopher shudders.

**Hp Tmr Tmr**

Two weeks pass quickly. Harry’s been having fun. Whenever he’s home at the same time as Riddle, Riddle tilts his chin up and searches his countenance for something. Harry figures he finds what he’s looking for, because he doesn’t say anything about it. 

He discovers with delight that Romanoff and Barton have requested him. Their handler, Phil Coulson, has the best sense of dry humor ever (Tom’s is just terrible and Harry will not admit otherwise). And the pair is very skilled- both Romanoff and Barton alone are difficult opponents without Harry’s magic. Together they are simply brilliant, and Harry makes sure they know.

The most stressful thing so far, besides the disaster that was that first instructor cornering him after class, has been keeping his dragon-hide combat pants out of the scientists’ hands, which is easy-peasy, seeing as he’s wearing them. Riddle doesn’t worry, so Harry doesn’t.

Harry also meets Steve Rogers- Captain America. He’d blurted out, “Is patriotism contagious?” at their first meeting, and Steve has been carrying an extra copy of his pocket Constitution ever since, encouraging Harry to stay for read alongs after training. Harry knows it’s a joke, but it’s also not, because he’s pretty sure the instinct to run whenever Steve reaches into his pocket is now permanently ingrained in him.

Anyway. It’s December and he’s been at SHIELD all morning, first with his class and now assessing a spar of Romanoff and Fenrir’s from the bleachers. Barton is in the rafters; Coulson is out on mission.

“Have you tried sensory deprivation?” a critical voice sounds behind him.

Harry whirls around, delighted. “Tom! When did you get here?”

“Just now,” says Tom, who’d given him the use of his first name after Harry had called him Riddle a week before. Tom’s dark eyes linger at the bruises on Harry’s cheek, then at how Harry’s clothes- as satisfying as it is to see Harry wearing _Tom’s_ clothes- Harry’s clothes inconveniently prevent him from seeing any more. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Harry waves him off. “I just didn’t heal anything yet. No biggie, I’ll do it later. Was that…?” He bends over and scribbles notes, his tongue poking out of his teeth.

Something in Tom twinges at Harry’s inattention to his own health. He puts a hand to Harry’s forehead and pulses healing magic; Harry automatically leans into the touch

“Nick Fury is a damp squib,” says Tom, just to regain Harry’s attention, “still having his scientists trying to catch you.”

Harry beams at him, catching on. “Aww, Tom, you didn’t have to.”

“I said I take care of mine, did I not?” Tom leans back, satisfied. Then takes Harry’s writing hand to gain his attention again. “Harry.” With Harry’s eyes on him, he scrambles for a way to put this- his pause is minuscule, but Harry notices. “Please,” he says finally, “take better care of yourself. I am not always with you.”

Harry blinks. “It wouldn’t be a good spar without injury,” he says, with a slight, soft smile. “How do I put this diplomatically- you don’t have to worry about me all the time. I’m a person of my own, you know.”

“You are,” says Tom, slowly, “but. Regardless.”

Tom is walking back to his office instead of apparating, thinking about the earnestness in Harry’s green, green eyes, when it hits him.

His perfect solution to Harry’s boredom is not so perfect after all. He’d thought that keeping Harry as a tie with SHIELD, with Fenrir as backup, would be safe. Harry is skilled. 

Except. He’d failed to factor in Harry’s careless nature. Harry gets sucked in to his work and neglects his well being. Harry doesn’t heal his bruises and cuts right away. Harry forgets to eat lunch sometimes- Fenrir told him. 

This on its own would be an annoyance, that he is not always there to take care of his own, when by definition anything belonging to him should be cared for properly. The real problem is that somewhere along the line, Tom has started to think in… ridiculous terms. 

At SHIELD, Tom had admired more of Harry than just how nice it was to see his horcrux smothered in Tom’s own clothes and magic. He’d run a hand through Harry’s wild hair to feel the texture, held Harry’s hand to feel its wiry strength despite its size, said the phrase ‘damp squib’ to feel Harry’s warm attention, lingered to feel Harry’s strong heartbeat...

Ridiculous. Just now he’d been imagining Harry’s eyes- and how plaint and trusting Harry has become in his hands, how satisfying it is to be so tactile- and something stirred in his gut. That’s what tipped him off.

Something is wrong with him. He cannot possibly be attracted to somebody- _a person of my own, you know_ \- so stupidly, carelessly, adorably… attractive… 

No. Nono. Nononono.

**G G G**

Gopher chugs her coffee like a _machine_.

Hunt wrings his hands next to her. “Our worst fears have been realized,” he moans, long suffering. 

Gopher tells him, accusatory, “You were the one who jinxed it.”

**Cb Cb Cb**

“Are you dating?” wonders Clint. “For some reason, I can’t tell.”

“We have a mutually beneficial relationship,” Harry responds absentmindedly. Then claps a hand to his mouth, horrified. “Oh, no.” 

“What?”

“I’m starting to sound like him.” Harry’s eyes are wide behind his glasses.

“You’re ridiculous,” says Natasha from the coffee machine, “so far from the breadth of his vernacular it’s not even funny.”

Harry processes that slowly, then mutters, “Bloody bollocks. She’s catching it too.”

“She’s just ribbing you, buddy.” Clint claps Harry’s shoulder. They sit down to lunch. After a few quiet minutes, Clint says, “Really, though? Who _are_ you interested in?”

Harry shoves another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth and chews. “Nobody,” he says eventually. 

“That’s impossible,” Clint declares. “Everybody’s gotta have _some_ body- unless they’re ace. But I don’t think you’re ace. Come on, even a celebrity crush! You gotta have one, you’re young.” 

Wade’s voice, dramatically offended, drifts over as he passes by the breakroom. “He’s _short_ , not _young_!”

“Come on,” Clint prods, “not a single one? You don’t have that feeling, like when you see someone, and you’re all _wow_ , your heart starts beating and your tongue swells up and you’re sweating like crazy?”

The room’s occupants watch Harry expectantly. Harry looks vaguely irritated. “That sounds like an allergic reaction.”

“And you suddenly know exactly what your breath smells like? And you realize that Riddle is hot as hell and you wanna-“ 

“- do things with him?” Natasha shoves Clint’s face away to prevent the imminent obscenities. Harry’s face is too precious to be offended. 

Clint pops back up. Harry returns Clint’s intensely curious stare blankly.

“You’re actually impossible.” Clint’s forehead thunks on the table, barely missing his plate. Natasha swipes his fork before he impales himself on it.

Harry breaks into laughter and emotions return to his face. Then he sobers. Clint and Natasha pay close attention as he says, “Yes, he’s physically attractive, but his personality? He’s basically a psychopath. He’s capable of terrible things, terrible hurt- and that was just when he was insane, a split soul.”

It’s disconcerting, seeing Harry glum when he’s usually so cheerful. Clint averts his eyes. “You know what,” he says, “Don’t tell me.” 

“Your relationship is complicated,” Natasha speaks up knowingly. “He’s hurt you before. He’s making it up to you, but you don’t really believe him. You think he sees you as a possession more than a person, so he cares for you- not for _you_. You’ve brought it up before, and he doesn’t seem to hear.”

“Nat, you really scare me sometimes, deducing all that from one interaction,” says Clint.

Natasha gives him a Look. “I know you saw it too, humor isn’t going to stop me. He should know,” she says and Clint deflates. “Harry, Riddle does care for you as a person. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he will. Probably after today, actually,” she muses. “He had that look in his eye.”

Harry isn’t convinced.

**Hp Hp Sr**

Natasha is rarely wrong about people. She’s got to be wrong here.

The morning after Tom’s surprise visit throws Harry for a loop. He hadn’t realized just how much Tom touched him until he’d become bereft of it; Tom takes one look at him and sets his mouth into a tense line. Harry still receives tea, but he only barely hauls his waistband up himself to preserve his precarious modesty.

James even breaks his usual observational silence to question, “What’s wrong, Riddle?”

Tom doesn’t respond, and he avoids meeting Harry’s eyes, leaves swiftly. Harry walks to SHIELD headquarters in the rain, and wonders: is it because Tom saw him weak, injured? Surely Tom has seen him weak before. What makes this time so different? Maybe Tom changed his mind; Harry isn’t worthy of his time after all. This shouldn’t matter so much- Harry had been doing just fine on his own- but somehow it still stings.

Water drips into Harry’s eyes, reminding him that he forgot his umbrella. Tom would tell him he’s a wizard. Anger rushes through Harry at the thought. What, Tom spends all that time on Harry, with Harry, and now he’s acting as if that were nothing? And it stings more that the rejection stings so much. 

Whatever. His dripping clothes are great. Harry can ruin SHIELD’s floors. 

Security waves his bedraggled mess through, commenting, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry responds, his mind on Tom. It is not a beautiful day. He does pause, though, outside the door to his morning class.

He can’t let some distance, from _Tom_ , especially, drag him down like this. He’s strong. He may carry some failures, but he’s strong. Harry takes a calming breath, runs magic over himself to dry out, and dons his cheerful face. His students sit in the cutest little messy rows, their desks haphazardly bunched together.

“Hey, Professor Potter,” greets Mile, giggling.

“I thought I told you to call me Harry,” says Harry, mood lifting and smile becoming more genuine as he falls into familiar banter.

Mile mock pouts. “But ‘Harry’ doesn’t shorten to Pee-Pee!” And the class breaks into juvenile laughter.

“You see what I deal with every day. Irreverence,” Harry commiserates with Fish, who nods somberly.

“Alright, class!” Harry calls. The agents snap to attention. “Today we’re gonna…” he trails off as he sees Walrus bent over, strangely focused on her lap. Walrus doesn’t respond to her code name.

Harry brings a finger to his lips in an exaggerated motion for silence and sneaks around Walrus’ chair.

He uses his creepiest voice to whisper in Walrus’ ear, straightens to look over her broad shoulder. “Are you on your…”

Walrus screams. Harry dodges the elbow to his face, finishing incredulously, “... _calculator_?”

“You’re such a third derivative!” screeches Walrus, her chest heaving. 

Mile has fallen out of his chair, shaking, bringing Fish down with him. Fish lays on the floor passively and stares at the ceiling while the hooligans crack up.

When everybody finally calms down and returns to their seats, Harry flourishes a sheaf of paper. “So-” 

He’s interrupted. “We’re gonna have a quiz??” Mile exclaims, falling out of his chair again.

“Hey, now,” says Harry, eyeing the three new knives now embedded into the Pincushion wall and Fish’s rapidly paling face, “don’t spazz out the children!”

“Permission to panic, please,” says Fish in a little voice.

Harry sighs and raises his voice. “Not given! This isn’t going to be as bad as you all think it is.”

He hopes that his kids will do well. This isn’t any regular quiz; it’s the first part of many to determine whether they will gain a clearance level.

The assessment passes, and Harry finds himself waiting for Steve to arrive in a workout room, studiously not thinking about Tom’s pained expression from the morning. Harry casts a tempus for the third time in as many minutes. The time hasn’t changed. Steve is late.

The door swings open. A soggy Steve enters.

Harry greets him with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. “Your water aerobic class run late this morning, old man?” 

“I got stuck in traffic, so I stopped the taxi and ran here,” explains Steve, harried. He freezes and his hand rushes to his coat. “Oh, no,” he says sadly, pulling out two damp pocket Constitutions. He looks at Harry pleadingly.

“A menace, an absolute menace,” Harry grumbles, magically drying the booklets, and then Steve for good measure.

“You can’t say that about me,” Steve says, mock indignant. “I’m a national icon.”

“I’m magic, I can do whatever I want,” says Harry.

Instead of responding in kind, Steve frowns, tucks his pocket Constitutions back into his coat, which he’s hung up, and says, “Only one senior citizen joke today? What’s wrong, Harry?”

Harry takes a leaf from Riddle’s book and doesn’t respond, changes the subject. However, he doesn’t last long; Steve’s Disappointed Face should be weaponized. A few days later, Harry crumbles halfway through lunch, Steve’s and Clint’s gazes hammering into the side of his head.

Harry pushes his chair back, stands, starts pacing. He stops in the middle of the breakroom and tugs at his hair, moans, “I ruined it. He has to hate me now- and I don’t know why!” He corrects himself. “I do, I do know why. I’m such a dunderhead. No wonder…”

“Harry,” Steve tries, already placating.

“No. Just let me-“ Harry opens the window.

Clint blinks. “It’s the first floor.”

Harry sinks to the ground in despair, not noticing as Gopher inches around him and flees, coffee clutched in hand. Clint reaches for his mobile. It’s picked up after one and a half rings. 

“Nat,” Clint says in a rush before she can greet him. “It’s Harry. I’d like for you to revoke the relationship counselor card I don’t remember earning.”

“No can do,” Natasha replies, her voice tinny through speakerphone, “the trial period lasts for a minimum of three weeks.”

Clint groans. “I’m going to catch the crazy. Come quickly.”

Natasha hangs up. Two minutes later, she shows up with a paper bag. The smell of sugar wafts from it. 

“You’re a goddess,” Clint tells her fervently, and motions her towards the middle of the floor, where Steve is coaxing Harry out of his conjured blanket burrito of misery.

Natasha nods. “I know.” She commands, “Harry Potter. Eat your treacle before I eat it for you.”

Harry’s bird-nest hair pops out of the rolls of fabric. The blanket burrito rights itself and hops across the room. Natasha steadies it so it doesn’t topple over. A muffled voice emerges, slightly wet. “Sweets?” A cute sniffle sounds from within. 

Natasha remains unmoved. “Take your blankets off, we’ll talk. Then and _only_ then will you be rewarded.”

Steve and Clint stand by as Natasha Romanoff works literal magic. 

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

Harry accosts him over dinner. Loki is off somewhere. James does his best to melt into the wall inconspicuously. 

Tom had been expecting something like this, but he’s not ready in the least. His gut churns when Harry says, blunt, “You’ve been avoiding me. It’s- interesting.” 

“Yes… very interesting.”

“You know what else is interesting? How you won’t look me in the eye.”

Tom keeps his gaze on Harry’s left ear. 

Harry huffs, all of a sudden sounding tired. “Tom Marvolo Riddle,” and dark startles, accidentally meets green, “if you’ve decided that I’m no longer a good investment, or however you think these days, please. Just tell me. We can cut ties and get it all over with, straightforward. No more of this half-assing around.” 

“No!” Tom blurts. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve- I’ve invested in you, Harry, and I don’t go back on my word. If I wanted to cut ties with you I would not be here.”

“Then what is it?” asks Harry, frustrated. “I can’t think of anything else it could be!”

Unexpectedly, Tom feels heat rising to his cheeks. He breaks eye contact and looks down at his plate, says as quietly as possible without mumbling, “It occurred to me that my handling of you may not have been… appropriate.” _And also I think I’m attracted to you and a boner with James or Loki or even Wade in the vicinity would not end well for me_ , Tom doesn't say.

Harry stares. “Have I given you any sign,” he says slowly, “any sign at all that I’m uncomfortable? Because you’d be eviscerated if I were. Really. I’m fine with it, and there’s no reason _you_ shouldn’t be.”

It’s Tom’s turn to stare. He recalls Harry, on multiple occasions, unashamedly recognizing Tom’s handsome features, but Harry literally doesn’t see it. 

Tom resigns himself to an imminent future of one sided disappointment. Tom won’t make a move on Harry for now, despite his want, as it is insignificant, and unrequited; he respects Harry too much for that. He consoles himself with the thought that having Harry in his hands is nice, even platonically. Which he will accept. Only until he acquires the desire and time for courting rituals, though. Obviously he will need to factor this into his plans if he does decide to commit.

(Harry has been the only one. He already knows he’s going to commit. He needs to plan, desperately. A plan will make everything better.)

Harry is fidgeting, waiting for Tom’s answer. Tom pushes the words out smoothly, doesn't choke on them. “That’s good. I was… concerned.” He reaches across the table and finally- it had been bothering him for the entire meal- wipes the grain of rice off of Harry’s nose. 

Harry smiles at him, relieved. 

“You should meet my people,” says Tom, abrupt, struck with how precious Harry is in the moment.

**Bonus** : Loki Asks Questions

“What happens if you imperius somebody to resist the imperius?”

“They resist any other imperius until the first imperius is ended,” answers Riddle, having done this experiment before.

“What happens if you add another newt’s eye?”

“The potion explodes,” answers Snape sullenly, having exploded this potion before.

“What happens if you combine this neon orange with this mossy grey-green?”

“You feel adventurous, but you get a lot of insincere compliments,” answers Harry cheerfully, having worn this combination before.

“What happens if I- I’m leaving, James, I’m leaving! Ouch!” 

… 

“What happens if I turn this?”

“ _Stop! Are you trying to annihilate us all??”_ yells Strange, having nearly annihilated New York before.

**Bonus II** : A Simpler Explanation. Skippable.

When Harry was tracking Tom in the beginning, he didn’t recognize Tom’s magic besides its vague familiarity and amazing taste. How? Well, in this universe, magic is closely connected with the soul; when Tom’s soul was repaired in the afterlife, his magic healed as well. The magic Harry was familiar with, Voldemort’s, was corrosive, jagged, and cutting, which masked the darker, rich undertones. Tom’s magic now is smoother, less immediately wrathful. 

But how is Tom here? 

Voldemort’s soul shenanigans couldn’t have all been undone with his death. Harry carried Voldemort’s horcrux for so long that his magic mingled with it, creating a soul bond. That small amount of soul was so altered by this that it couldn’t be merged back with Tom’s original soul (it’s currently hanging out in Death’s office, occasionally helping as a paperweight). It’s so minuscule that it doesn’t really matter… but it also matters a lot.

See, Harry gained the title of Master of Death (the name of which is really misleading; really, _Master_ , Death certainly hadn’t gotten that memo).

So Harry has the Hallows, and can’t die; but Voldemort is tethered to his soul, so while he can die, he can’t pass on until Harry does. And this would have been fine for Harry. Harry would be alive, Voldemort would be in the train station, and they would never have to see each other again. 

Except. Voldemort annoyed Death so much ( _he would stare creepily over my shoulder while I did paperwork!_ Death actually whined) that Death finally decided, for its own sanity, to reincarnate Voldemort in another universe. There’d be no continuity problems and Harry would never have to know, perfect solution!

Fate ran with it, and now Harry knows. 

THERE’S MORE. 

Remember Bella? Snape? Lucius? Yeah… Voldemort really messed with soul magic in the Dark Mark, to the point where the more he called on a Death Eater with it, the stronger a soul tether he would create with that Death Eater. With Harry’s soul connected to Voldemort’s, and then Voldemort’s soul connected to his most called-upon Death Eaters... well, Voldemort wasn’t alone in reincarnation. 

( _Just because I left them out earlier doesn’t mean they weren’t_ also _staring over my shoulder!_ Death had upgraded to wailing in consternation.)

Also. Death is a personification. Greyback’s explanation: scroll upwards. What Harry is doing with the Hallows: see chapter 4 (the one before this). How Harry has dragon hide pants: Snape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if your brain left the chat:  
> say what you will about our boi Tom, but he ain’t flakey  
> he (besotted) dedicated  
> y’all won’t find a more faithful obsessor  
> Harry’s sorta lucky that way. The psychopath part can be a minus, though :(
> 
> Extras:  
> * The most wonderful jadejabberwock and enjerutantei have agreed to beta for me!! Send them lots of love, they are the literal best <3 <3 <3 >~<  
> * No ‘Agents of SHIELD’ because i have never watched it (le gasp)  
> * We still don’t have enough women and I am upset??? Maybe Pepper will help. Next chapter goes through the holidays and into the events of 2012, the Avengers movie!! I AM EXCITE  
> * My college list is titled ‘Prayer Schools.’ Because I’m praying, even though I’m agnostic and i have no idea who i’m praying to *sacrifices a goat* 
> 
> Up Next:  
> James, on the other side of New York: did something happen, who do i need to shoot, i will shoot them.  
> Loki: yes, please shoot someone, i’m bored as fuck


	6. Finally, Some Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuun people things, things, and there’s a bar in the beginning, also the Avengers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we finally get into the meat of this… important note: I don’t rewrite the script of “Avengers.” That’s stupid. If y’all know what happens, you’re pretty good. If you need a refresher or if you’ve never watched “Avengers” before *horror*-- i highly encourage you to go watch the movie… youtube clips… read the script… whatever you need to do. If you’re not doing any of those: ask in the comments and I’ll do my best to clarify <3
> 
> big thank you to enjerutantei and jadejabberwock for beta-ing! You both are the best <3

6 Now You See Me

**Hp Hp Tmr**

“Really, Fenrir,” says Harry, trying to push past Fenrir’s mass of muscle, “I can take care of myself! I survived on my own for decades, y’know, before Tom set you on me. Lemme through!”

Fenrir doesn’t budge and says slowly, “Being able to come back does not warrant endangering your life needlessly. You told me that it hurts.”

“Tom will be there. He won’t let anything happen,” Harry pleads.

Fenrir hesitates. Harry pounces on the momentary weakness.

“Hang out with James a bit, I know you haven’t caught up with him in a while, cover the house in case Wade or anybody comes by. Maybe you can figure out the muggle Yule tree, for James and Wade. Don’t you ever get sick of my company?”

“You shouldn’t say such things about yourself,” Fenrir frowns, looking tempted.

Harry widens his eyes and tilts his head to catch light from the permanent floating _lumos_.

“I’ll go figure out the tree,” concedes Fenrir. He steps aside.

“Don’t wait up for us-- we’ll probably run long!” Harry says, and swiftly turns the corner before Fenrir can change his mind. 

“Thank Merlin,” Harry mutters once he’s out of the werewolf’s earshot, and idly kicks a piece of ice; it skitters across the sidewalk. “He takes his job _way_ too seriously.”

Harry amuses himself by exhaling puffs of steamy breath, pretending he’s a dragon, until he arrives. A double check of the map tells him that he’s at the right place, as unlikely as it is that Tom would arrange a stereotypical meeting in a club at night.

It’s not the most… high end bar, either. Harry twists on his stool, surveys the entrance area again. He has faith in his ability to spot Tom, whose pale skin should stand out in the colorful lights, but one could never know for sure.

Tom now is ten minutes late, and Harry is getting restless. It’s unlike Tom to be anything short of punctual.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” a stranger says, alcoholic, rancid breath fanning over Harry’s face, its owner having smoothly slid into the seat next to Harry. _Too close_. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

Harry replies absentmindedly, “No,” and leans away, returns to watching the entrance. If he has to stay here any longer, he might just blow out those stupid migraine inducing strobe lights, secrecy be damned.

“You sure you don’t _Juan_ to know my name?” A large hand clamps heavily on Harry’s slim shoulder. “Why don’t you look at me when I’m talking to you?”

“Why don’t you go tell someone else how much it hurt when you crawled up from hell!” Harry snaps, shrugging off the offending appendage.

“Ooo, _buuurn_!” A random passerby yells, the sound somehow carrying over the deafening bass beat. The person is swallowed up by the crowd.

Harry stands to go wait outside. His wrist is abruptly crushed in a bear clawed grip. 

This is ridiculous. Tom is late (he’s not worrying, nope, not at all) and this pushy man won’t come off it and realize he’s not interested. Harry wouldn’t be even if he weren’t busy— this man has not a single drop of the presence Tom exudes casually.

Talk of the devil and see his horns.

“Excuse me,” A smooth, dangerously lilting voice cuts into the man’s clumsily aggressive flirting before Harry can remove the hand. Harry sags— not in relief, that would mean he’d been worried. He wasn’t. It’s just that his overprotective arsehole is here, hair perfect as usual, and now the situation is going to end badly for the man who couldn’t have just minded his own business and gotten sloshed in peace.

The stranger cries out, the sound lost in the loud music, as Tom’s aura presses in around him. Harry takes a bracing breath-- _mmm, magic_ \-- and turns around.

Tom’s eyes are so dark that Harry worries for the drunkard stumbling back, hitting the counter of the bar. They flick down to the bruises no doubt blooming on Harry’s wrist, then refocus on the stranger, twice as furious.

“Tom,” says Harry, tugging on his arm. “C’mon, Tom, let’s go.” 

Tom doesn’t move for a long moment. It suddenly hits Harry that Tom is dangerous. Which Harry knew before, once with the Tony Stark incident, and he’d acknowledged it, but— he’d almost forgotten. He genuinely fears for this man’s family, psyche, future.

The moment seems to last longer than it does. Tom snaps out of it, looks down at Harry.

“He’s just a drunkard. Not worth your time.”

Tom doesn’t respond, instead leading Harry across the floor. The mass of sweaty bodies parts automatically for him. He tugs Harry’s sleeves down to cover his wrists and pulses healing magic, frowning as he finds and heals the finger prints on Harry’s shoulder as well, while guiding Harry by the small of his back.

“He’s not worth your time, Tom, you’ve got to promise me,” Harry persists once they’ve made it to the other side and entered a long hallway.

Tom meets his eyes. He lets a few calm, even breaths pass before saying, “He hurt you.”

“You’ve got to promise me, don’t hurt him. Or his close ones.”

“... I won’t.”

“In full.” Harry is stubborn. “A light oath.” A thought occurs to him. “And no sending people, either.”

“I swear to you I and my people shall not harm the man who assaulted you or his kin by any device of my doing,” says Tom, and the wispy binding magic settles over them.

Harry eyes Tom suspiciously. Tom agreed really quickly… but for the life of him, Harry can’t spot a loophole. Harry wishes briefly that he had a magical lawyer on call. As it is, he lets it go.

“Good. So,” Harry says, changing the subject, “I’m just meeting your people, right? Nothing else?”

Tom is taking almost comically small steps to match Harry’s comfortable pace. Only ‘almost’ comically, because Tom could be skipping down the hall with ribbons in his hair and make it seem like if you aren't also a peppy cheerleader, _you_ are the weird one. “Yes, mostly,” Tom responds. “It will be quick. If you are not too tired, I’d appreciate if you’d look at a… magical problem my people are working on. Loki agreed to help as well. He’ll be bringing a trusted friend with him when he arrives.”

“You know I’d be happy to help you,” says Harry, and Tom draws him a little closer by the waist before letting go to open a heavy wooden door.

It shuts behind them with a muffled _thump_ , immediately dampening the noise from the main area. In the hush of the room, Harry wonders if maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all, judging by his blooming rage at the sight of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Voldemort had split his soul and suffered insanity. What excuse did Bellatrix have for her actions? None. None at all. 

Harry tears his gaze away from her form. The room is moderately sized-- in a sharp contrast to the bar outside, it’s tastefully decorated in the same dark wood theme as the door. 

Tom’s people-- probably only the important ones, because there were more Death Eaters than this even during Voldemort-- stand from their chairs around the large, circular table as Tom and Harry enter. Most of the faces are familiar, but Harry can’t identify all of them.

“My Lord,” says Bellatrix, reverently. Harry gives Tom an incredulous look.

Tom ignores him and waves a hand. His people sit down. Tom puts Harry in one of the two empty seats and sweeps into the other. He settles, opens his mouth, and Harry can already sense a monologue coming on. 

“Wait, wait, stop,” Harry says. “Before you start on your script, could we introduce ourselves?”

“I already prepared that,” says Tom, a mite annoyed. If anyone else had dared interrupt him, their _crucio_ probability would have increased drastically. Harry is also here, though, so maybe it would stay at zero percent. Tom doesn’t like thinking about it too much.

Harry grins. “Of course you did. It’s just that I already know everybody here, and everybody here already knows me--“ Bellatrix, Lucius Malfoy, Snape, Barty Crouch Jr., and Roldolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, yep-- “there’s only you who I don’t know. Hi, I’m Harry, pleasure.” He stretches across the table to offer a hand. Tom finds it in himself to feel grateful, for once, for Harry’s propensity towards oversized sweaters, because otherwise Harry would have flashed skin.

“Call me Kimble,” the serious, brown-skinned woman says with a faint Indian accent. “I handle Riddle’s non magical people. Pleased to meet you.” Her palm is firm and dry. Calloused.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix bursts out. “You cannot mean that the one-- the one you said-- you-- this _imbecile_!”

Tom pulls Harry back, out of the reach of her flailing. He raises an eyebrow, adds weight to his words with magic. “Do you question me?”

“I vouch for Harry Potter, and so does Fenrir Greyback,” says Snape, cutting off Bellatrix’s stammered response. Something about the green mantis shrimp sweater and stabbing her eyes out.

“So do I,” Crouch and Malfoy say simultaneously. They glance at each other, startled.

“Mmhmm,” Rodolphus Lestrange hums. Rabastan Lestrange glares vaguely.

Harry blinks. “Wow.” He decides to be smug instead of offended at Bellatrix’s utter shock that he’s on good terms with half of the table. He’s also pleasantly surprised-- he’s never spoken to Malfoy in this universe, to his knowledge-- but that doesn’t matter.

Tom looks distinctly satisfied. “Yes. I have brought Harry here to refresh your memories. Remember our last meeting. Now, does anybody have a problem with our… arrangement? Harry?”

“What arrangement is this?”

“A good one.” 

Harry gives up on glowering as Tom grasps his hand under the table in apology. _Later_ , the gentle warmth engulfing his fingers promises. _I’ll hold you to that_ , Harry squeezes back.

“Now that that’s settled,” says Tom. “We can move on. Lucius, Severus, Barty, stay. I trust you brought your progress. Bella, Roldolphus, Rabastan, Kimble, thank you for your time.”

Bella leaves with a toss of her hair. “Mmhmm,” Roldolphus Lestrange hums, and Rabastan Lestrange’s vague glare is cut off by the door closing.

Harry is happy that Tom has this opportunity to do-over. He is. It’s just-- Tom has his Death Eaters. Who does Harry have? His friends and family have moved on, through no fault of their own. As much as he clings to their memory, he has no wish to summon mere shades with the Resurrection Stone. He’d tried it before, way back when, and all it did was hammer home the fact that he would never see them again.

Tom’s light touch pulls him out of his thoughts. Lucius is talking, and has just turned to Harry. “I must thank you, therefore, for agreeing to help with this problem. I have confidence that your knowledge of the wizarding world’s innovation will accelerate the breaking of the soul bond greatly.”

Alarm thrills through Harry before Lucius continues, “Of course, the Dark Mark was no uncomplicated magic, and my Lord does not recall many details of how he modified it after splitting his soul the sixth time.” Harry relaxes, and tucks the question of why he’d be so alarmed deep into denial. Then, as it occurs to him, he straightens and turns to Tom.

“You’re really letting your Death Eaters go?” he asks.

“If they so wish. Lucius, for one, misses his wife and son,” responds Tom. “Is it so surprising that his whining would eventually get on my nerves?”

Harry studies him. He’s really going through with this. “Wow, you’ve really grown a lot. From Voldemort.”

“And you’re still only five feet tall,” Tom says without missing a beat. He talks over Harry’s outraged sputtering. “You can’t deny the truth, Harry.”

“I’m five foot _four_! Four entire inches, Tom, you can’t miss them!"

“How much of that is hair?” asks Lucius Malfoy, looking genuinely interested.

Snape snorts. “Give it up. Potter’s hair is utterly impossible.”

“I have a theory,” begins Barty Crouch, “that family magic--”

“Spare me.”

Malfoy gives Snape a disapproving look. “Barty contributes valuable ideas. It would be unwise to disregard them.”

“Pshh,” says Snape, “you just want to figure out how to volumize your hair.”

“So you _were_ paying attention yesterday!”

“No, I wasn’t. This is information by osmosis. Barty, that was _not_ an invitation.”

It’s too late. Crouch has launched into a long-winded lecture on the possibilities of studying family magic to improve cosmetic spells and products.

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose, a human gesture Voldemort would never have allowed himself, and Harry cannot help but say, amused, “All this, and they still call you their ‘Lord’?”

“I tried to wean them off,” grumbles Tom, “but Bella insists on this address. She must have threatened everybody else-- I haven’t yet caught her. The one time I care not for it, the _one time_ …”

Harry’s caught mid-laugh when the door opens. Loki steps in like he’s entering a throne room, and the man who follows is just as graceful. His eyes are sharp despite the graying hair at his temples; a red, high-collared cloak flutters about him; his back is ramrod straight even as he carries several thick tomes.

Loki’s mint green eyes catch every person in the room. Then he motions towards the other man, and speaks. “Dr. Stephen Strange. I am Loki.” They take the chairs recently vacated by the Lestranges.

“I trust that you are the last ones joining us today?” greets Riddle.

Loki says, “I believe so--“

“But not least!” Harry adds with a friendly grin.

“Of course,” sniffs Strange, and clasps Harry’s proffered hand briefly. “Pleasure.”

“Likewise."

Loki pulls a stack of paper out of thin air with a flash of green light, and they begin.

An hour and a half later, Harry’s head hits the table with a dull _thunk_. “I know more about this damned ritual than I ever cared to know.”

Tom glances over at the paper in front of Harry, squints to make out the chicken scratch handwriting. You barely know anything.”

“Exactly.”

Another half hour passes. Harry stiffens suddenly.

“What is it?” Malfoy asks.

Harry points to the overlap of two runic circles. “This looks really familiar. How would you describe this?”

“Stupid,” says Snape after peering at it.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Loki comments wryly, standing up to stretch. He taps Strange’s shoulder to wake him up.

Crouch notices Strange’s bloodshot eyes. “You look terrible.”

“Ah,” Strange yawns, “the time to do this? It came from my sanity.” At Loki’s frown, he explains, “I’m glad I could make it. It is fascinating to gain perspective on such an interesting ritual with magic users of four different types, each a genius in their respective fields.”

“Four?” questions Crouch.

“Mine, of the Mystic Arts; Loki’s, of the Aesir and Vanir; Riddle, Snape, Malfoy, and yours, of your world’s older and darker arts; and Harry’s, with your world’s newer and lighter arts,” Strange counts.

“Draco’s pet project!” Harry exclaims. Then he droops. “I didn’t even realize that he was working on this, after all of those years-- I was never as good at layered effects as he was…” He starts scribbling furiously.

“Draco,” breathes Lucius Malfoy.

Tom curls a hand around Harry’s, halting the pen’s motion. “Why not just summon the young Malfoy?” The others are now completely focused on Harry, some with curiosity, some with anticipation.

“The… the stone?” Harry says, hoping that Tom won’t confirm it.

“Yes,” confirms Tom, looking at him strangely. “What is wrong?”

Harry leans back in his chair, stares at the ceiling. Soft yellow lights hang from varying lengths of cord. “I don’t want to forget,” he says finally. “I’ll do it. I’m only a little afraid.”

Lucius’ brow furrows.

“I’ll do it,” Harry repeats. _It’s only… I don’t want to replace their memory with the shades of the resurrection stone._

Snape looks away, pity staining his gaze.

Tom shows no sign of discomfort besides the idle circles he traces across Harry’s knuckles. “I, too, fear to forget,” he admits and eyes jump to him in shock, both at his vulnerability and Harry’s little gasp. His palm rest on Harry’s; he marvels at its strength. “My memory, normally so reliable, failed me once. Who is to say that it will not fail me again? I cannot, though, cling to that fear. I must move forward, for otherwise Lucius and those others who desire to move on will never be able to do so.”

Harry takes a breath. “Right,” he says, and as if in slow motion, he untangles his fingers from Tom’s. His eyes dart up to meet Tom’s, a flash of vibrant green, then down to the pendant that winks into existence on the dark chain around his neck. 

Harry reaches up, plucks the thin circle out of the design of the Hallows. Between one blink and the next, it pops into the resurrection stone. Harry considers it for a moment, and holds it out to Lucius Malfoy.

“You should do it,” says Harry, sturdily.

Malfoy hesitates, then folds Harry’s hand around the stone and pushes it back. Tom tamps down on his irrational surge of jealousy. Malfoy says, uncharacteristically gentle, “When we figure out how to break the Dark Mark bond, I will see my family again. You… will not be able to, from what my Lord has informed me. Please take this chance.”

Harry gapes and doesn’t resist. “What is with all of this-- this pity,” he says, his voice breaking, and some part of Tom’s heart breaks with it.

“We shall give you privacy,” Tom says. He leads the others out.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

Tom dismisses the others after an hour of waiting. They leave, albeit reluctantly, at the two hour mark. With no one around to see him, Tom allows himself to lean against the wall beside the door. He worries for Harry, and he plans. 

He decides against eavesdropping. Harry’s wrath would have no end.

How does one even begin to woo? He needs to research. It’s a shame he never paid attention to it Before; now, as he’s lost access to magical books, he must ask an actual person for courting advice. Maybe… Lucius… or perhaps muggle works may have something of value after all.

Somewhat past the three hour mark, Harry opens the door, dried tear tracks on his ashen cheeks. “I have the solution,” he says bluntly, his voice hoarse. “And-- I’m not going to use the stone again.”

Tom jolts, lifts his hands to hover above the tears, unsure, and Harry’s face crumples. Tom gathers Harry into his arms and maneuvers them into the room, Harry shuddering against his chest.

Tom simultaneously thanks Merlin that Harry is relatively easy to handle, and _hates_ whoever taught Harry to cry so quietly. 

With Tom smoothing a hand down Harry’s back over and over again, Harry’s quaking subsides. Harry’s head remains buried in Tom’s shoulder; Tom cups his nape and thumbs the divot where his neck meets his skull.

Harry tries to pull away from Tom’s lap after a while, his ears pinking. Tom sees the moisture at the corners of his eyes and squishes him back into Tom’s chest, so when Harry tries to speak, it comes out muffled. 

“Wan’ get slosh’.”

“You’ll regret it if you drink in the wee hours of the morning,” says Tom, firm. He shifts Harry closer and settles. Harry fits into him easily.

“Still wan’,” Harry mumbles, the warmth of his breath seeping through Tom’s shirt. “Wha’ time?

“Four am.”

“Hope Fen’ didn’ wait up.” Harry sighs and turns his head- his left ear is now pressed to Tom, and Tom’s hand cups his jaw. His eyes, mere slivers of green, flutter closed. Tom waits a few more minutes after Harry’s breath evens out, enjoying the feel of Harry’s smaller form against his, then leaves Harry in the chair, careful not to jostle.

The notes on the table detail the beginning of something quite elegant. Tom wishes he could have seen young Draco’s potential grow. No matter. He gathers the papers into a chest in a corner of the room, which wards snap down on once he shuts the lid.

He contemplates for several seconds even though he already knows what he must do. Wizarding transport would just wake Harry, and Tom doesn’t like the idea of anyone else touching Harry in so intimate a manner.

Tom drapes the trench coat over Harry, then slips his arms under Harry’s knees and shoulders, making sure Harry’s head lolls comfortably on his own shoulder. He exits from the backdoor of the club, nods curtly to the night guard, and treks through softly falling snow to Harry’s flat, boosting his arms with magic when they complain.

Fenrir opens the door before Tom has to figure out how to ring the bell with Harry in his arms. “Alright?” he states.

“Yes,” says Tom, tired.

“Took a long while. It’s five in the morning. You walk all the way back?”

“Yes.”

“I can take him from here.” Fenrir reaches out. Tom stiffens. Fenrir gives him a long look. “Alright, then. Alright,” and he motions them in. Tom drops his warming charm in relief. 

“Talk tomorrow,” Tom says. He sets Harry on his bed, changes him into pajamas, tucks him in carefully, and barely remembers stumbling to the guest room.

**Hp Hp Hp**

It’s noon when Tom makes his way to the kitchen. Harry is licking milk off of his spoon. Cereal, judging by the dredges at the bottom of the large bowl in front of him and the cinnamon sugary smell in the air.

“Did you sleep at all?” says Tom, frowning, running a hand through Harry’s wild hair briefly, then reaches around Harry to check the ingredients on the cereal box. Harry is looking lighter after the morning-- he looks happy, as if he got some closure. Good.

Harry tilts his head back and smiles at Tom. “Yeah, but I woke up at ten. Internal alarm, see.” He turns back to Fenrir and James, who are also sitting at the table. James is tinkering with something small and Fenrir props a cheek on his forearm, listening with his eyes lidded. “And then,” Harry continues his story, “Tom, here, swaggered in like he owned the place.” He-- horribly inaccurately-- recreates Tom’s general expression of authority, lifting his nose into the air.

“I do,” says Tom, fond.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less-- wait, what?”

“You heard me. Don’t malign your intellect by gaping like that.”

James looks up from his work. “I think you broke him,” he says, and flexes his hands, rolls his neck. 

“Right. Of course you do. Next thing you’ll be telling me you own the place across the street too!” Harry exclaims.

“I do. Fenrir lives there, actually.”

Harry throws his hands in the air. Tom catches the spoon before it hits him. “I-- give up. Hey, Tom, I seem to recall an ’arrangement’ from yesterday?” 

Tom fetches a bowl and barely tips the milk jug toward it before Harry stops him.

“This isn’t any less cursed than the first time,” says Harry, and swats Tom away, pours Tom’s healthy whole grain concoction into the bowl. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question.”

“Last night was so my high ranks could recognize you. You’re further in the protection of mine, now.”

“What in the name of Merlin does that mean?”

Tom pats his hand and gives him his spoon back. “Insurance. You don’t have to do anything-- don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worrying about it,” Harry mutters. He stands to put his bowl in the sink.

“It’s Yule tomorrow,” says Tom, pretending he didn’t hear that. “We could use your magical power. Will you join our ceremony?”

“That old ritual stuff?”

“It’s tradition.” Tom’s brows lower slightly, belying his distaste.

“Lucius is really into it, huh? The old ways.”

Tom blows out a breath. “He respects the power of the calendar,” he says diplomatically, remembering his own obsession with Samhain.

“Bull. He just likes to get high.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. Harry sighs, says, “I’ll stay for the first three stages-- after that I’m leaving. Death would never let me live it down.”

“Be prepared to explain your sensitivity to Barty, then.”

“Can’t blame me. Haven’t done a ceremony in forever, seems like.”

“Sorry,” James says, “but what exactly are you talking about?”

Harry startles. “Oh! Hey Tom, you think James might like to see it?”

Tom frowns, undecided. 

“We can invite Loki and Strange too-- I think they’d like it. Imagine Malfoy’s _face_!”

That’s how Harry and Tom spend their Yule. Getting mildly high on ritual magic and giggling about how cute the non-wizards were with their notes. Well-- Harry giggles. Tom merely smiles slightly, just enough to creep out his lesser ranked Death Eaters.

They don’t exchange presents for Christmas or anything, but the four of them-- Loki, James, Tom, and Harry-- make a feast, cobbled together from their respective cultures. Wade drops by in time for dessert and Harry tells him off for tracking blood into the house.

It’s been a while since Harry’s had people to cook for over the holidays. When the ball drops for the new year, Harry leans into Tom, breathes in, relaxes. It’s a nice life. It feels like… family.

(If James, Wade and Loki slip away afterwards to visit a certain ‘Juan,’ Harry certainly doesn’t know.)

**Hp Hp Hp**

“So what does Riddle do, anyway? I have a vague idea, but-- he’s always busy, and when he does show up, he’s pretending he’s not tired all the time. Shut up, Nat, your shady method isn’t working.”

Natasha’s face pinches slightly. It’s true; SHIELD files didn’t reveal anything. Anyone who knew anything was frustratingly difficult about the information. When she finally got some answers, they muddled in her mind, which never happens.

Harry’s mouth curls upwards. Tom must have figured out how to _fidelius_ his secrets after he died. He surreptitiously sets up some privacy wards with a wave of his hand, and says, “You’ve gotta keep it hush-hush.”

“Well, _obviously,_ ” says Clint, rolling his eyes. “So?”

Harry shakes his head, smile broadening. “No, what I mean is, you won’t be able to share it with anyone. Even if you want to, you’re being tortured, or somebody tries to read your mind. It’s powerful magic.”

“Oh.” Clint considers it for a split second. “Okay.” Natasha takes longer to nod.

“Verbal confirmation,” Harry prompts her.

Natasha narrows her eyes, but says, “Yes. I understand.”

“ _Voldemort_ ,” Harry hisses in parseltongue. Golden magic settles around Clint, Natasha, and Coulson. “Tom, he has this whole network going,” says Harry. “It’s all hush-hush power in high social circles, I don’t know that much about it. His main thing, though, I reckon, is weapons dealing. Wade assures me it’s pretty ethical; all of his arms are magically runed, tracked, and can be remotely destroyed. Regular gangs and civilians would never get their hands on his stuff. And-- also, I’m not supposed to know this by Fury’s standards, but Tom is a big supplier for SHIELD.”

Natasha looks as if several pieces of a puzzle have fallen into place. Coulson’s eyes widen.

“Whoa,” says Clint after a pause. “Suddenly he and you are much scarier than before. What’s Greyback, then?”

Harry grins and drops the privacy wards. “He’s one of Tom’s,” he responds, not mentioning _he’s a werewolf_. That’s Fenrir’s tidbit to share, and Harry wouldn’t want the poor souls to be too shocked to spar properly. 

**Hp Hp Hp**

It’s a pleasant morning. Harry drinks a gallon of tea (courtesy of Tom), admires the small buds on the trees during his morning walk to SHIELD, and finally addresses the elephant in his classroom.

“So, the paperwork took a while to process-- I have for all of you some exciting news!” Harry announces, and presents a sheaf of paper with a flourish. “Remember that test we had back in December? It went pretty well, and a good chunk of you passed!”

There’s some alarmed flailing. Fish’s eyes are wide. “If passing counts as ‘pretty well,’ how badly did we do??”

“Very well,” says Harry, firmly. “This wasn’t just any test. Passing means you’re moving up a clearance level. I’m so proud of you!”

Mile holds his paper at arm’s length away, his eyes clenched shut. “I can’t look. I’ve got to. I can’t look. I’ve got to.”

Fish takes the grade. “You passed! Here, tell me what mine is.”

Mile flings himself at Fish with a holler and they topple over for the thousandth time. Then he hauls them both onto Harry. Harry goes down in a mass of yelling bodies as the rest of the class piles on.

“I’m gonna miss you,” somebody says tearfully once the laughter dies down. There’s the sound of flesh smacking flesh.

“Bullshit. We’ll visit everyday. We’re not leaving Prof on his own!”

“What if he replaces us?”

“We’ll keep you updated. Duh,” says Walrus, who’d barely missed the mark for the unarmed combat portion.

Nobody sees Harry smile. It’s small, yet brighter than his usual giant grins. Instead of saying anything, he hugs tighter.

Later that day, Harry finds himself in SHIELD’s breakroom.

“First my students, then Natasha, and Coulson, and now you. Everybody’s leaving me,” mourns Harry theatrically. “What will I do with my afternoons?”

“It’s only a guard rotation. I’ll be fine,” Clint reassures him.

Harry wails. “I only have my morning class and Steve! Which means I can’t put off studying anymore-- it’s just that Strange’s tome is so dense, and the words are all English, but put together like that they never make sense-“

“You’ve been complaining about procrastinating on this ‘next big step in my very important top secret project’ for _week_ now,” says Steve, his Disappointed Face making an appearance, highly effective even when he breaks character to imitate Harry.

“Well, I’ve never been studious. Don’t make the bad face,” Harry groans. “Horrid, you’re all horrid.”

Clint pats Harry on the shoulder. “There, there. I’ll only be gone for a month. I’ll be with Coulson-- don’t worry. Do your best to survive without me. Fenrir, Steve, take care of this dumbo, will you?”

Gopher sidles out of the room with her third coffee of the day, unnoticed.

“Of course,” says Fenrir seriously.

“What do you mean, take care of _me_?” Harry asks, indignant. “The one you’ve really got to watch out for is Steve. Biggest troublemaker in the building, right here.”

Steve looks highly offended. “A _national icon_ can’t be a troublemaker. And besides, I never get away with anything, because _apparently_ I’m too-“

“Predictable,” Clint and Harry deadpan.

“... Yes.”

Fenrir chuckles. “Go, Barton. I will keep them safe.”

“How many times have I told you it’s _Clint_?” Clint whines, but he claps Fenrir on the back and leaves.

As much as Harry complained, though, once he adjusts to the archaic writing of Strange’s tome, he’s on a roll. He’s _so close_ to figuring out where Draco’s preliminary work leads. He just needs some time. 

Harry has commandeered one of the five tables of the breakroom for his work; Fenrir dozes across from him. SHIELD operates at all hours, so neither of them notice the time passing until Tom drops by.

A strange expression crosses Tom’s face when he sees Harry, and muscles he didn’t know were tense relax.

“It’s midnight. You’ve missed dinner,” Tom says. Harry doesn’t respond but Fenrir does.

Fenrir decides against commenting on how weirdly relieved Tom looks. “My Lord.”

“Has he been like this for long?”

“Through the afternoon and evening.”

“Inform me next time,” says Tom, frowning. Fenrir bows his head. Tom waves him off; Tom hadn’t expected to worry so much, anyway, when Harry wasn’t home for the dinner Tom always makes time for. And isn’t that a startling thought: _home_. “Harry.”

“‘M almost, I reckon…” Harry says, and trails off. 

Tom takes Harry’s pen and plucks his glasses off his nose. Harry blinks blindly, his eyes unfocusing.

“Harry, you need to sleep.”

“Tom?” Harry questions. Tom touches Harry’s cheek. Harry beams in Tom’s general direction; his vision is terrible. “Y’know, it’s been scientifically proven that one hundred percent of people who sleep… die.”

Fenrir snorts.

Tom can’t believe he’d expected intelligence. “At the very least, eat something. It’s midnight. You’ve missed dinner.” He repeats himself patiently.

Fenrir stands and wanders over to the other side of the room, occupies himself with sorting the sugar packets. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used the uncharacteristic qualities Harry brings out of his Lord, and he doesn’t particularly want to.

“It’s been sci--“ The rest of Harry’s sentence is muffled by Tom’s hand. 

“You’re coming home,” says Tom, and gathers Harry’s papers. He folds Harry’s hands around them— “Hang on”— then scoops Harry up in his arms.

Harry’s weak protests are interrupted with a jaw-breaking yawn. Fenrir follows Tom sedately. They apparate to Harry’s flat after exiting the SHIELD building and Tom strides past Loki to deposit Harry in his bed.

“You missed it last time,” Fenrir tells Loki, who is blankly confused at Riddle’s passing. Riddle is so… prideful, and condescending-- Loki would never have guessed that Riddle would willingly carry anybody. Fenrir explains, “Last time he hauled Harry all the back from Jam. The club. He must’ve fueled the warming runes for, what, an hour? After pulling two all-nighters in a row.”

Loki raises a brow. “He’s been downplaying his magical reserves in spars, then?”

“Nah. He flaunts what he’s got. He usually keeps his reserves above half, though, for emergencies.”

“Impressive,” Loki comments. _So Harry is Riddle’s liability_ , he thinks, and stores the information away. Who knows when he’ll want it.

**Fg Fg Fg**

Fenrir should have known. Always expect the worst, and be pleasantly surprised, right? He was stupid. He’d thought things were going well.

Things go sideways. 

(Things will not be going well for a while. Fenrir doesn’t know that yet.)

Harry has been looking sickly all day. Riddle has to lift him to the dinner table when he loses his balance. Despite Harry’s assurances otherwise-- ‘Death told me it’d be fine!’-- it’s proven serious.

Harry’s just picked up his spoon when he cries out suddenly, clutches his head. Riddle rushes to his side, panicked; the room shakes.

“Fuck! Get out, _out_ ,” Harry gasps. Fenrir has a split second to startle, because Harry _never_ uses that swear, before a rich, oppressive weight floods the kitchen: cabinets are blown off their hinges, plates and silverware shatter, the windows explode outwards, sink pipes burst. James and Loki and Fenrir are flung out their chairs, away from Harry.

The world goes white. Dimly, Fenrir hears dissonant chiming-- the wards must have collapsed under the strain.

Then Riddle’s familiar, dark, cooler magic layers on top of Harry’s. The world goes black.

A sharp green light illuminates Loki’s shaken face. It expands through the room. Fenrir picks himself up, as does James.

A maelstrom of pure magic, so powerfully dense it’s visible, swirls about Riddle and Harry in a contained sphere that shreds through the floor beneath them. The chairs and table-- splintered; the food-- a lost cause. A bead of sweat slides down Riddle’s strained expression as he clutches Harry’s shoulders, and Harry is curled up, shaking in agony.

“Fuck,” Riddle echoes, forces Harry’s chin up. “Look at me,” he commands. As soon as Harry’s eyes partially focus, he hisses, “ _legilimens_.”

Nothing happens. Riddle says again with feeling, “ _Fuck_ ,” and another contained wave of magic pulses.

“Can you not help them?” James asks, eyes wide, gun ready but not pointed anywhere.

“I can’t be sure that our magic will not react with volatility. Their kind draws magic from their own cores; I draw on universal energies, as does Stephen,” answers Loki, assessing. “Thank the Fates we aren’t connected to the electrical grid-- the overpowered _lumos_ was bad enough.”

Fenrir shakes his head in agreement. Wood bits fall from his shaggy mane. “Even if I could help, my reserves could not compete with theirs. Besides, they’re dying down.”

Riddle is supporting Harry’s body with his own, mouthing something against Harry’s hair. The magic fades.

“I’m sorry, sorry,” Harry says, holding Riddle back, and shudders. “I lost control. Again. S- sorry--“

“What caused it?” Loki demands, and steps forward.

Riddle glares. Harry fists a hand in Riddle’s shirt and answers anyway, staring at the torn floorboards. “Something ripped. In the dimension. Spacetime. Like the destruction of the Bifrost, but so _wrong_. I couldn’t-“

“Shhh,” says Riddle, then hisses in Parseltongue.

Harry hisses back, barely audible.

“Fenrir, the sink,” Loki commands. “James,” he motions to the room.

“And you?” Fenrir rumbles.

“SHIELD would have picked up something of this magnitude,” Loki says, coldly. “I’m going to interrogate Fury. Then I’ll get Stephen here. I suspect…” Between one blink and another, Loki disappears.

“The audacity,” mutters Fenrir. He extracts a long splinter out of his forearm and raises his wand. James chuckles humorlessly and starts picking his way across the room.

**? ? ?**

“The Chitauri grow restless.”

“As long as they do their job.”

“You question us? _Him_ , against the meager might of Earth? He, who put the scepter in your hand, who gives you the means to achieve your purpose as a part of His greater whole?”

“I care not for the greater whole. I will do my part; make sure you do yours.”

“We look beyond your planet. Have your lesser magicks and your rule. But be warned: the Tesseract.”

“You will have it.”

“If you fail--”

“You doubt me. _You will have it_.”

**Bonus:** Death

It’s interesting how the threat of imminent demise enriches the lives of beings. Only too aware of their mortality, they feel so deeply day in and day out, as if trying to cram as much feeling as possible into their short lives. The press of time had become a distant memory…

… until Harry.

Harry makes Death wish for time.

**Bonus II:** Tom is Fashion

He was an orphan. The Hogwarts orphan fund (fanon) definitely did NOT cover the fancy party robes Tom needed to wear at important events; he learned to transfigure them himself. And because it’s Tom, he transfigured them _well_. 

It was a shame that whenever somebody complimented his clothes, he would have to force himself not to brag. Imagine if Malfoy caught wind that he was so dirt poor he couldn’t buy his own clothes! This not only was the only exception to his ‘got it, flaunt it’ rule, but also deprived the Wizarding World of Fashion.

Unfortunately, as Voldemort, he was too fixated on his Harry obsession to transfigure clothes. A pity. Harry would have been an amazing model, and he was in desperate need of some Fashion. 

Don’t get me wrong, the Gryffindor girls saved Ron’s maroon-doomed ass, but Tom would have done _so much better-_

At least he gets to style Harry to his heart’s content now. Except for the hair. Potter hair never behaves and Tom is in a hate-love relationship with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Happenings:  
> I attribute Harry and Tom’s excessive touching to their childhood cuddle deficits.
> 
> Up Next:  
> if Loki didn’t open the portal for the Tesseract, who did??? o.O
> 
> Also: Harry, introducing Tom to the Avengers: oh yeah here’s the guy i met when he keeled over in a shady alleyway  
> Tony: you mean fainted like a princess  
> Harry: yes  
> Tom: no  
> *everyone looks at Tom*  
> Tom: It was a manly passing out!  
> Harry: he had a diadem too


	7. There's a Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In your bones when / When the fire takes over  
> Blood is running / Heart is pumping  
> As the battle gets closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W h o i s t h e v i l l i a n h u h  
> aaand we launch into the Avengers movie!
> 
> Much love to jadejabberwock (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadejabberwock) and enjerutantei for beta-ing!

7 There’s a Moment

_2012_

**L Hp Hp**

“Clint,” Harry breathes, horror-stricken. “Oh, the poor man— compromised… Natasha, does she know? Coulson?”

Loki nods grimly. “Natasha’s mission was cut short. She should return from India soon; she recruited Bruce Banner. Coulson was at ground zero, with— Clint.” Loki clears his throat. “Fenrir covered for your recovery these last two days— you heal absurdly slowly, by the way, without Riddle’s help— but Fury’s personally requesting.”

“It’s _Clint_ ,” says Harry, conviction strong, already moving to fetch his combat gear. “Screw this Tesseract doohickey. _Of course I’ll go in_.”

Loki lets go of the phrases he’d readied to persuade, if necessary; he’s glad that Harry’s hero complex is pulling through. “Whoever it is messes with powers it knows not, and so does SHIELD. I will help. However. If an Asgardian discovers me, it will make my life very difficult.”

Harry eyes him. Loki feels measured. It reminds him of Frigga, of how Harry may look youthful but carries wisdom beyond his years. Finally, Harry smiles.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Harry says. “Here.” He detaches the outer triangle from his pendant and presses it into Loki’s hand. “It will activate when it is necessary.”

Cryptic.

James speaks. “I can’t go to SHIELD, but keep me updated. I’ll help where I can. Wade would appreciate a heads up as well, he’s not on good terms with Fury.”

“Of course,” promises Harry. “Loki, you coming with?”

“Soon. I must first meet Strange; we shall work with Riddle’s folk to locate the Tesseract. I’ll drop by Riddle on the way; he’ll probably meet you on the carrier.”

“Alright,” Harry says, fixes the image of the Helicarrier in his mind, hopes he won’t miss it because he’s only been there once before, and apparates away.

He appears with a _crack_ on a table in Command, steps off of it nonchalantly, ignoring the piercing shrieks. Natasha stops where she was leading somebody somewhere. Steve and Fury turn around on the center platform.

Fury facepalms, breaking his ‘Director mode.’ “Stand down, agents.”

“He was here only a month ago; _constant vigilance_ ,” Hill adds, radiating disapproval.

Somebody says, “It’s _because_ he was here a month ago that we’re wary,” and there are murmurs of agreement. Under Hill’s stare, they get back to work.

“Hi, Natasha, Steve, Hill, _Furry_ , Hunt! Coffee lady! and I don’t know you?”

Fury turns away, pinching his nose. “That’s Bruce Banner. Don’t bother him. We need him.”

“I don’t bother the good ones,” Harry says, mock offended. He shakes Bruce’s limp hand with pureblood etiquette. “I’m Harry. Pleasure.”

“You’re looking different,” greets Steve.

Harry spreads his arms, showcasing the gleaming, scaly black encasing his body, and beams. “Fake dragonhide!”

(“Don’t tell us, then,” says a scientist in the background, sullenly.)

Harry continues, “This isn’t that surprising, though— I wear these pants all the time. The real surprise is that _you’re_ not late! No ten minute walks across the road? Groceries didn’t spill out of your paper bags?”

“ _One time_ ,” Steve groans. Then he lightens up. “I did get out of my water aerobics class early today.”

Fury is confused. Steve never registered for a water aerobics class. 

“Wow,” gushes Harry, “you’re so old. Is it true that you have an _autographed_ copy of the Bible?”

Coulson is literally dying, this is a national icon.

“Potter, you’re older than him,” Fury corrects, his confusion mounting. His phrase also adds to everybody else’s confusion.

“I’m curious,” says Steve after a pause, “but more importantly: _what was with all of the_ old _jokes, huh?_ ”

“What old jokes? I’m a senior citizen— my memory is going.”

Before Steve can properly express his outrage, a new, magnetic voice interjects, “You had better hope to remember how you failed to invite me to this party, because I’m deeply offended.”

Harry whirls around. “I’m not spry anymore, my Lord!”

“Don’t call me that,” Tom says with distaste, striding up to the center. (Some agents swoon.)

“Oh. I’m sorry."

Hearing Harry apologize, for some strange reason, Tom’s reflexive response is, “It’s alright, darling.”

Harry freezes. Tom freezes.

“So who are they, and why are they here again?” asks Bruce Banner, mildly. 

Natasha shushes him. “It’s finally happening, let them finish.” 

Harry and Tom look at her, then lean closer to each other. Fury and Steve stand by uncomfortably, Natasha watches avidly, and Bruce Banner is storing his Science questions (teleportation!) for later.

“Harry!” Fenrir greets, entering the space, and Natasha’s shoulders slump slightly in defeat as the moment is broken. “I heard you’d arrived-“ He breaks off. “My Lord.”

“Fenrir,” Tom sighs, runs a hand through Harry’s hair to calm his exasperation. Harry leans into the touch and laughs. Tom changes the subject, addressing Harry. “Does the dragonhide work well? It suits you.”

“Snape’s a genius, as usual.”

“Good.”

“I’m really sorry to interrupt,” says Bruce Banner, louder this time, “but I should get to the lab.”

“We’ve got people working on tracing the Tesseract already,” Harry tells Fury. Tom inclines his head in agreement. “Doctor Banner doesn’t seem to want to be here— you didn’t have to _drag_ him.”

“Call it insurance,” grumbles Fury, and gestures at Natasha to continue. She leads Banner out.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Coulson is watching with stars in his eyes as Steve signs his vintage Captain America cards when an agent speaks up. Harry hears “We got a hit… Stuttgart, Germany… Barton” and immediately pulls partially out of Tom’s proximity, where they’d been quietly discussing the next stage of Lucius’ ritual, as it has come to be called— Lucius is the one spearheading the project. 

Fury says, “Captain, you’re up,” but his words are drowned out by gasps of shock.

A portal, sparking orange at its edges, expands in the same place that Harry had appeared earlier. Stephen Strange steps through. Dramatic; Harry supposes he couldn’t expect anything else from the ‘Sorcerer Supreme’. And the irritable red cloak, which Loki is _obsessed_ with, speaking of whom…

Harry raises an eyebrow at Loki’s absence. Strange’s gaze flicks to Fury in a subtle explanation, then meets Harry’s eyes. Harry nods, feeling Tom’s reassuring warmth at his back.

“Stuttgart,” Stephen announces to the room at large, stepping off of the poor desk.

“Captain, you’re up,” Fury repeats.

“We’re going, too,” says Harry, firm. “Fenrir, you’re great, but sit this one out, please.”

Fenrir’s brow crinkles. “Harry, I must protest.”

“Protest?” Tom sends Fenrir a quelling glance, yet Fenrir lifts his chin, albeit hesitantly. Fenrir is the perfect bodyguard— after all, what better than a werewolf’s protective instinct to guard over his Harry— but in this instance it is inconvenient, allowing him to rebel against his Alpha’s direct orders.

Tom brushes a tendril of power over the nape of Fenrir’s neck. Fenrir concedes reluctantly.

“Bella?” Tom suggests.

“Are you kidding?” Harry asks Tom incredulously. “Do you want a prisoner to question or not?”

“Point.”

“Alright. Steve, you go on ahead without us, yeah?”

Steve frowns. “But how will you three get there?”

“Oh,” replies Harry, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “Tom’s been.”

Tom holds out a hand to Strange. Strange shakes his head. “No cursed wizarding transportation for me, thanks,” he says, and opens a portal. “Who’s coming through?”

Tom sighs and lightly weighs the room with his magic to gain attention. “You’re all a mess.” He amplifies his voice. “Strange, go now. Hold whoever it is off. We’ll follow you.” Strange doesn’t hesitate; he steps through a new portal and disappears. “Natasha, fly some firepower over there. Steve, go with her and change. Fury, let me finish.”

A disgruntled Fury subsides. It’s what he’d been about to order, anyway.

“Toodeloo,” says Tom with a completely straight face, and he _cracks_ away with Harry.

Stuttgart is chaotic. The remains of a gala disperses; police cars are on fire, in varying states of flipped over. Strategic explosions rock the area, the source of which is a dark shape on a roof.

Clint.

“Tom,” Harry says, clipped, and Tom understands. Harry moves for the civilians, where Strange is working, while Tom apparates behind Clint, _stupefies_ him, and binds him with an _incarcerous_. He quickly joins Harry on the ground.

“Too easy,” remarks Tom, conjuring streams of water to direct over the fires.

Harry pauses after casting his last shield he’ll need. “Yeah. Natasha’s Quinjet isn’t even here yet. It has to be a distraction.”

Tom straightens suddenly, his head tilting as he hones in on something Harry can’t sense. 

“I have this,” says Strange, resolute. “Go.”

Harry grabs Tom’s hand and they apparate.

They appear a few feet above a cloaked stranger hurrying away from the looming structure of a museum. Harry lands on them, knocking them to the ground; Tom rolls a distance away and whirls around to cast.

A sickening crunch rings out— Harry’s head snaps to the side. “Metal,” he snarls, spitting red onto the stranger’s gleaming silver mask. They wrestle, roll over and over each other; Harry focuses on healing himself as rapidly as his opponent injures. With his split attention, he barely registers the colors flying past him to impact— Tom must be casting— but he definitely does notice when a surge of magic rises up from the stranger beneath him to counter a vicious cutting curse.

That is Harry’s only warning before a dull _boom_ launches him into the air. He flips and lands some meters away, lightly on his feet, his eyes glinting. The mystery person leaps to their feet.

“Magic users,” the stranger comments, calculating. Their voice is modulated through their mask. Harry is mostly sure they are a male, though, judging from his weight— and the penis he’d kneed at some point.

“Obviously.” Tom doesn’t take his attention off the stranger.

The clearing they’ve reached floods with magical power: a heavy, earthy flavor. Tom’s rich darkness and Harry’s crackling energy rise to meet it. 

Harry moves first— _expelliarmus_. Classic. The stranger shields, their casting unrecognizable to Tom and Harry; the shield still breaks with a standard three-point curse breaking sequence. Tom smirks as the stranger stiffens in palpable shock.

The stranger raises his hands, encased in gauntlets to cast.

A shield— red, white, blue— whizzes past Harry’s side and smashes the stranger against a tree.

“Late again, senior citizen,” Harry quips. Steve takes a moment to catch his breath. Breathing is more difficult than usual with the thickness in the air.

“On time, actually,” Natasha’s voice sounds over a Quinjet’s loudspeakers, accompanied by a faint whine as firepower clicks into place. “Surrender.”

The masked stranger somehow gives the impression of sneering. They say, guttural, “As if.”

The Quinjet’s bullets barely harm him. In fact, his armor seems to be absorbing the kinetic energy. The hail of firepower ceases as Natasha probably realizes this as well.

The clearing launches into chaos again. Steve is left behind, gasping, when the magic gets so dense that he literally suffocates. Tom and Harry cast insanely quickly, and in synch. Harry cannot help but enjoy the thrill of adrenaline; there’s nothing quite like fighting _with_ someone he has fought before, and against such a skilled opponent— Harry has not met many with such control over both the elements of electricity and earth. Spell-light and energy bolts flash so continuously that night lights up like day. The stranger doesn’t even bother to shield half of the spells, letting them bounce off or be absorbed by his strange armor. His hooded cloak has long been shredded.

Harry feels a slow smile stretch across his face. Tom reacts immediately to his sudden mirth. Soon, they are competing not only against the stranger for survival but against each other for the most creative spells. The contest is on once their opponent catches on to the lightened atmosphere.

At one point, Harry conjures a particularly impressive earth dragon to devour a horde of the stranger’s demonic creatures. Tom matches it, entwining it with an extravagant water type. The stranger falters.

Harry and Tom press their advantage.

Harry must say, they are _outdoing_ themselves.

**Nr Nr Nr**

Natasha has never seen anything like the light show currently obliterating large swathes of forest. Nevertheless, she still catches the movement in a different part out of the corner of her eye. She investigates; she couldn’t do anything more for Harry and Riddle, anyway.

The movement was Iron Man, arriving where Captain Rogers had stopped. Loki, who she’s not supposed to know about, must be near, because Thor is here. Figures that they drew his attention.

Natasha enhances the audial feedback on the Quinjet.

“— friendly?” Stark says.

“I came as soon as I could,” rumbles Thor, looking disgruntled. “Let me through. I would offer aid to your shield-mates.”

“I’m sorry,” replies Rogers, diplomatically, “we can’t let just any folks through, even if you claim to be an alien prince warrior.”

An area shimmers, out of sight of the group on the ground, and Loki drops a cloak from his shoulders. He glances knowingly up at Natasha, then gestures. An image of him appears behind Stark, except its expression is evilly mischievous.

Thor’s face slackens in surprise, then draws up into tense, angry lines. “Brother! Is this your doing?”

“Brother?” Stark and Rogers repeat, looking about them. Evidently, only Natasha and Thor can see the illusion.

Thor launches himself at Loki with a shout of “Where is the Tesseract?”, bowling through Stark and Rogers in the process. Loki’s image laughs and dissolves. Mjolnir swings through empty space.

“Whoa!— fuck!” Stark yelps as he’s sent flying with another swing. 

“You know nothing of what you are dealing with, if my brother is the cause of this,” Thor growls. “Let me through!”

“We can talk this out— put down the hammer!” Rogers’ shield glances off Mjolnir in a shower of sparks.

Thor doesn’t even hesitate. “This is beyond you.” He raises Mjolnir and Rogers braces himself against the ground; right before the hammer hits, Stark flies in out of nowhere and tackles Thor. 

“Messed with the wrong dudes, Point Break,” Stark grunts. Steve moves to join the fray again—

A feral roar tears through the conflict; it’s followed by the cracking of hundreds of snapping branches. It’s coming from the direction of Harry’s fight.

Fighting pauses; five heads swivel.

“That is not Loki’s work,” Thor breathes, a light of fear in his eyes. Loki himself gasps and holds onto a branch for support.

“Get in,” Natasha says into the Quinjet’s intercom. “Quick. It’s approaching.”

Rogers quickly climbs the lowered rope. Stark nudges him when he halts halfway up, finally catching a glimpse of the fierce fire spreading towards them. It’s made up of— savage, hungry beasts, each overlapping the next. 

Natasha curses in Russian. “Hurry.” Loki teleports up, and Thor spins his hammer to rise into the air.

Thor gapes at Loki, but Loki’s eyes are glued to the scene below. “By the Norns,” Loki whispers, and suppresses a shiver. 

“What is this?” Thor asks, appalled.

Loki answers, “Fiendfyre,” and will say no more.

Rogers and Stark share a look. Stark breaks the gaze early, slamming his faceplate down. The _clunk_ echoes awkwardly in the enclosed space; Rogers is faintly bewildered.

After an eternity, the fire swells and collapses. Natasha guides the Quinjet to the area where Harry is most likely to be; where Harry is, the trouble is.

The first thing Natasha notices when they step out of the jet is the energy hanging in the air, which must be magic— it is a heady mix of flavors at the back of her tongue, tingling across her skin, weighing in her lungs.

Riddle hisses “ _legilimens_ ” from where he’s crouched in front of an immobilized, metal-armored man. “Merlin,” he swears, and tries again, this time actually hissing something unintelligible. “Some vague plans, but nothing more. He kicked me out.”

Harry sways on his feet. “Y— you think Snape could get more?”

Riddle stands, a brief glow flaring over his arm as he finally heals a minor bruise. “I… I do not know.” He sounds perplexed, though his face is carefully blank.

“Hey,” says Harry, gently, and he staggers over to Riddle. “Stop worrying, right? I’m sure your mind stuff works just fine. It’s only this crazy sod. Here. I’ve got you. Hey Nat!”

Natasha finally reaches the trio. Riddle holds a hand to Harry’s forehead and heals, his brow crinkled in an uncharacteristic show of concern he never directs towards anybody else. Harry continues, “We’ll debrief once we get to the Helicarrier. We’ve gotta drop off this bad boy—“ Harry pats the masked man’s shoulder— “probably summon Lucius for some wards, pick up Strange and Clint, figure out why Iron Man and Steve and Thor decided to duke it out unnecessarily.” This part is said with bite; Thor flinches. Loki doesn’t even attempt contrition. “C’mon. Everyone.”

Natasha says, “Ascertain the identity.”

“His mask is fixed on.” Harry shakes his head. “And Tom and I are… not the best at muggle technology.”

“Say no more,” declares Tony, flipping his faceplate back up. “I thought you’d never ask. Move, let the genius through.” He pushes his way to the center of the circle.

There’s an unsettled look in Rogers’ eyes as he watches Stark fiddle with the stranger’s armor. Natasha resolves to pay close attention to _that_.

Several minutes later, the metal mask opens with a soft “Aha!” from Stark. The group shuffles into a semicircle of curiosity. 

Natasha recognizes the face.

“Victor von Doom,” she blurts says. “Did Ree—the Fantastic Four not lock you up?”

“I had some, ah, help.” The classically handsome face grins charmingly up at her. “I remember _you_ , my sweet.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

“You utter bastard,” Harry seethes from outside the circle. Tom holds him easily. Natasha doesn’t need his defense on her behalf; nevertheless, it’s nice to have.

Strange chooses that moment to step from a portal, holding a limp Clint. “Don’t stop on my account,” he says archly as everybody turns to him.

“And now, a _sorcerer_ ,” Doom says, irritatingly gleeful for a bound man. “My, my, my, this just keeps getting more delicious.”

A bolt of energy shoots towards the sky.

“Er, sorry about that,” says Harry sheepishly. He’s in the incriminating position of holding a bladed staff with a blue stone embedded at the end, pointing upwards. “Hey, Mister Victor, what’s this?”

“ _Doctor_ _Doom_ ,” Doom snaps, irritated, finding a new pet peeve and not liking it. His eyes widen in outrage as he recognizes the weapon, then narrow. Natasha guesses that he’d never meant for that to fall into Harry’s hands, and is now calculating the situation to his advantage.

“Doctor Doom doesn’t rhyme, Mister Victor,” says Harry blithely, and he hands the staff to Riddle. “We’re not gonna get much else out of him, and who knows where the Tesseract’s gone off to. Let’s go back.”

They trudge back to the Quinjet. Tony makes grabby motions toward the staff— Riddle hands it over. Tony pouts about how he can’t make things shoot out of the end, but quickly distracts himself with Doom’s ‘fascinating’ armor; Steve watches Tony with an increasingly constipated look on his face, feeling deliberately ignored; Loki and Thor are tense; Natasha keeps half an eye on the unconscious Clint; Strange wedges himself between Loki and Thor nonchalantly.

Harry collapses on Tom, who lets out a faint ‘oof,’ but obligingly brings his arms up to surround Harry in warmth, smooths his hands over Harry’s thighs reassuringly. Tom’s fingers automatically tangle in Harry’s hair, and he tightens his hold about Harry’s waist when the masked man shows too much interest. Harry dozes lightly.

The flight is tense and silent.

**Hp Hp Hp**

They meet in a tech-heavy, open, circular space for the debrief, and turn their attention to individual monitors. Tom, of course, pulls Harry to him before Harry can get one of his own.

SHIELD agents carry the masked man into a glass cell after a failed frisk, deposit him on the cold ground. That has got to be uncomfortable. Fury threatens him, and he responds in kind, his eyes twinkling even as he lays there; Tom watches intently, gripping Harry’s shoulder tight. He snarls wordlessly when the man’s gaze fixes on the camera. 

The man says, a smirk in his modulated voice, “Ah, yes. The beast. I, however, am more interested in… finer arts.” He leans forward, menacing. “The pendant.”

Tom draws Harry halfway behind him, as if the man could phase through the screen and attack them right then and there. 

Harry rolls his eyes, but pats Tom’s back anyway.

“This world,” the masked man continues, now speaking directly to the camera, to Harry, “pathetic, lonely for a being such as you. For what? You know the end.” He tilts his head. “You could relinquish it. _Give it to me._ I will do with it what you are too weak to accomplish— I will fix the imperfections of this organization which seeks power beyond its control, the madness of this world. I remind you what _real power_ is.”

Fury retorts, “Well, let me know if Real Power wants a magazine or something,” and walks off, but Tom doesn’t watch the monitor black out. 

Tom smooths a hand across Harry’s back, concerned, and hisses, _Alright?_

Harry nods, his smile only a little wobbly. “You worrywart. I’m fine.”

“All I’m getting is more questions,” Dr. Banner says.

Steve takes the lead. “Let’s get all our stories straight, after every member is here.”

“How many people do we _have_?” asks Banner. 

“Well, in all…” Steve counts off on his fingers. “Harry and Riddle, and their people, for their magicks. You, for your Science. Me. Agent Romanoff, and— Agent Barton, who isn’t brainwashed anymore, Agent Coulson, their handler, they’re SHIELD’s elite. Agent Hill, Director Fury’s second, and the Director himself will probably also be present… Dr. Stephen Strange, for his Mystic Arts. The aliens— I have no idea, and Mr. Tony Stark—”

“ _Doctor_ ,” interrupts Banner. “It’s _Dr._ Stark.” 

“Oh. Sorry. Dr. Stark, who is also Iron Man.”

(Tony can't decide if Dr. Stark is better or worse than just Stark, and ends up not saying anything.)

Loki speaks up. “Group me not with this buffoon. I claim the vouchers of Dr. Strange and Harry’s people.” Stephen nods. 

Harry giggles a bit at Tom’s offended expression. Tom barely holds back a sharp retort.

Tom says instead, “I vouch for Thor.” Thor turns in surprise, and Loki looks somewhat betrayed; Tom keeps himself angled between Harry and the gods. “This is not a vouch of loyalty. It is a vouch of power, of necessity. Thor, you have issues with one of my companions; I ask of you to avoid conflict.” Tom’s tone states that it is the furthest thing from a request.

Loki relaxes. Stephen touches his shoulder in support. Thor watches the interaction with a pained expression but makes no comment, even when Loki smirks briefly.

“I thank you,” says Thor at last, making a strange hand sign. “Your companion. Doom requested of you— and the stench of Dea—“

Tom cuts him off sharply. “That may be one motive of Doom’s, but not the main one.” Tom’s gaze darkens in warning; Harry grabs his hand before his eyes start to bleed into scarlet. Tom calms. “It is a private matter. Do not speak its name.”

Thor shifts uncomfortably under the intense stare. “I understand. I apologize.”

“The matter at hand,” Tom continues, “pertains to what I gleaned from Doom’s mind. The Chitauri, an army, gifted to him by some unknown figure in exchange for the Tesseract after his victory over Earth.”

“An army? From outer space?” Steve repeats incredulously.

“Crazy,” murmurs Harry, shaking his head. “He wanted my— my power, so he could ‘fix’ the world, or some other batshit insane idea.”

“He must be building another portal,” Banner muses. “That’s what he needed Erik Selvig for.”

“Selvig?” Thor questions, dead hope in his countenance.

“Yes,” says Banner, carefully. “An astrophysicist.”

“You knew him,” Natasha states. “Don’t worry. He’s irreplaceable, so he won’t be harmed.”

“And we’ll get him back, yeah?” Harry adds. “We have Clint back, after all.”

Thor seems to reevaluate his opinion of Natasha and Harry. Loki, however, says, “False hopes can be dangerous.”

“I mourned _you_ ,” Thor responds, his voice heavy. “Yet you stand before me.”

“Family domestic,” warns Steve. 

“Back on track,” Banner interrupts, again. “Iridium. What did they need the iridium for?”

“It’s a stabilizing agent,” Tony Stark announces, walking in. He’s changed out of his Iron Man armor and is now in a crisp suit. He says something low to Clint and Coulson beside him; Clint snorts and claps him on the back while Coulson keeps a straight face.

“Dr. Stark,” says Steve, standing in respect. Tony eyes him, suspiciously surprised, and leaves the proffered hand hanging, whirlwinding through the room with disjointed announcements— “That man is playing Galaga!”— until he reaches Dr. Banner, and shakes _his_ hand. Steve looks at once disgruntled and more determined. Harry groans internally; it’s just like Steve to take that as a challenge.

Clint, reaching Natasha, pulls her into a quick hug, then pulls a face. “Science, science,” he mocks playfully, and punches her in the shoulder.

Natasha says something quietly in Russian.

Harry fights against zoning out while they speculate, about the sceptre and its connection to HYDRA weapons, the Tesseract, and flying monkeys, which he both doesn’t understand and doesn’t care for. He only catches the tail end of Banner saying “... Let’s play” when Tom steers him towards the exit. 

“Alright?” Tom asks him, concerned.

Harry yawns. “Tired. The fiendfyre took a lot out of me.”

“We’ll catch some shut-eye, and then meet with the people on the mind-control staff. Interrogate Doom, as well,” Tom decides. “You need to change. Come.”

The command is unnecessary, as Harry is already docile, following Tom’s every direction. He finds himself on the bottom mattress of a bunk bed. A thrill of alarm awakens him as Tom tries to pull away.

Harry must be more unsettled by Doom’s threats than he’d thought— which is reasonable, as Doom _is_ a formidable opponent. “Don’t leave,” he ends up saying. “Just for… a few hours.”

Tom takes the invitation easily. Harry clutches Tom’s arm to his chest, tangles their fingers together, feels Tom’s larger body settle around him. That’s… not _exactly_ what he had in mind, but it feels nice, so he falls asleep before he can muster any protest.

Tom stays awake a while longer, turning Steve’s comment about HYDRA over and over in his mind. He’d neglected the potential threat of the organization for far too long, grown complacent with James’ neutralization. No more.

**Ts Ts Ts**

“All I packed was a toothbrush,” Bruce jokes, swiping at the screen in the lab, and Tony smiles. Before he can make the offer that’s been niggling at him since they met at the bridge, Captain America interrupts.

“Dr. Stark, Dr. Banner,” he says, unfailingly polite, and Tony hates him a little more. “This is Loki, a magic practitioner of the Aesir and Vanir. Dr. Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme. And Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape, wizards.”

“Magic,” Tony repeats, less disbelieving than he would have been before the light show at Stuttgart. “What, wand waving? Could I get some sparkles?” He waggles his fingers. “You’re all Merlins and Gandalfs, just missing the beards. Big disappointment.”

The Captain opens his mouth, a Disapproving Face forming, but—

“Have care of the arts you disrespect,” Loki says, with a pleasant expression. “These _sparkles_ , as long as you explain your mug— mortal language, will speed your processing time for your gamma readings faster than a charging hippog— bilgesnipe. And we have scans you would never dream of.”

Malfoy breaks the tension by facepalming. “Loki. Stop resisting.”

Loki’s jaw clenches. “I will _never_ succumb to the idiocy of your sayings— Harry would mock me for the rest of eternity—“

Cap tries to suppress his guffaws; Tony doesn’t even bother.

“We have one more on the way,” says Strange, getting them back on track. “Barty Crouch Jr.”

“Right.” Loki takes the segue with some relief. He flexes his fingers. “Explain to me this device.”

Thor bursts in. “Loki!” he bellows. He scans the room, leaves as abruptly as he’d arrived. 

Loki reappears beside Tony, hiding something in his palm. 

“Oh, we’re going to have _so much fun_ ,” Tony breathes, questions whirling through his head. Bruce is similarly enthused. Snape swoops like a giant dungeon bat toward the scepter, with the other magic users trailing him like overgrown ducklings.

A scant minute later, Tony suddenly stops babbling. “Wait!” He holds the attention of the group, but his eyes keep sliding to Cap, who’d been about to leave. Dammit. They were not supposed to do that. He’s supposed to be _ignoring_ the man, yet somehow, that fact amplifies his presence. Infuriating.

“We’re listening,” prompts Loki, amused.

“We need to focus on the problem, Dr. Stark,” says Cap, turning around with a frown. “Say it if it’s important, but don’t leave us hanging if it’s not.”

Tony abandons his previous train of thought. “Excuse me? Of the people in this room, who is not of use? _And_ wearing a spangly outfit?” He immediately regrets it when Cap’s face falls. God, he just had to run his mouth. 

“Should my style matter? Time is ticking; we should just focus on our orders.” Cap crosses his arms. “What is it?”

For once, Tony thinks before answering. On the contrary to Pep’s frequent laments about his lack of tact, he _can_ recognize the care needed to spin this room of powerful people to his side— he’s a Stark. “Fury, he’s a spy. He’s _the_ spy. His secrets have secrets. Why did Fury call us, and why now? Why not before? What isn’t he telling us? I can’t do the equation unless I have all the variables.”

Loki snorts. “Was this the purpose of your bug, back on the bridge?”

“Sharp eyes, Merlin,” Tony says, impressed.

Cap snorts. “Yet you’re confused about why they didn’t want you around.”

Tony’s response is cut off by Malfoy. “ _Loki_ ,” he says, his nose wrinkling, “like _Merlin_?”

“Imagine,” begins a drab man, walking in, who must be Barty Crouch Jr. “Harry Potter. _Loki’s balls!_ ” It’s clearly a bad imitation, as he falls over laughing. Malfoy chuckles, somehow still regal; Snape is emitting a wheezing noise as he tries not to laugh.

Loki himself turns away. “Cursed,” he says, a smile in his voice. “I never want to hear that phrase again.”

“I really want to know what, exactly, Dr. Stark is doing with the bug on the bridge,” says Steve, seriously.

Tony looks up from his screen. “What? Oh, yeah. In a few hours we’ll know every dirty secret SHIELD has ever tried to hide. Bruce, hand him the bag of blueberries. You look stressed, Cap. Blueberry? You might benefit from whatever Bruce is having. Mellow jazz. Bongo drums. Huge bag of weed.”

Cap parses through the babble, then says, “Following isn’t your style, isn’t it?”

“Not when—”

Bruce stands. “Steve, tell me none of this smells a little funky to you?”

“We should be focusing on finding the cube, figuring out the staff,” says Cap, slowly. He glances towards Tony. “But you’re… right. I can check the paper files. And I’ll get Riddle and Harry in on this, too.”

Tony hides his actual shock with dramatic shock— he would never have expected rule-following Captain America to agree to his plan. He brings up a hand to his heart, pretending to swoon. “Oh, Captain! Our very own Lancelot!”

“Right, I’ll go, then,” Cap says, a faint pink rising to his cheeks. He leaves quickly, flustered.

Tony physically closes his open jaw. “Did I just see what I saw? Did you see that? Bruce? I’m hallucinating, I have to be.”

“He _admires_ you,” Loki smirks. “How cute.”

“Captain America.” Bruce looks skeptical. “Cute.”

“Get back to work,” Strange says. The occupants of the lab hastily focus; Strange has this ‘don’t mess with me’ regal air about him that nobody wants to cross.

**Hp Hp Hp**

In the morning, Harry and Tom, walking towards Doom’s cell, pass Natasha coming the other way.

“He isn’t any more cooperative today than yesterday,” she tells them. “Keeps asking for you, Harry. Be careful. And remember, he’s the monarch of Latveria; your threats have the limits of diplomatic immunity.”

Tom sighs. “Harry is the furthest thing from diplomatic. I’m going in with him.”

“Worrywart,” Harry repeats, halfheartedly. 

Doom rises from his meditative posture when they enter. His cell glows with the strength of Lucius’ wards. His metal armor is gone, courtesy of Stark’s earlier fiddling, and his face brightens from placid to delighted. “Welcome to my humble abode!” he declares. “Voldemort. Master of Dea—”

“It hears you, y’know,” says Harry, “when it’s invoked.” A pause. “And not many know that name.” 

“Oooh, I seem to have struck a _nerve_.” Doom rubs his hands together. “I know a lot of things, my sweet. Tell me— I’m _dying_ of curiosity— how did you two get over the murder? So much red in your past, and yet you’re so _chummy_ —”

With a flare of Tom’s magic, the cameras and microphones in the room blow out. “Who told you,” he growls, stalks up, and slams his palms against the glass. “Who told you!”

Harry is as alarmed as Doom, but he trusts Tom to know what he’s doing. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as Doom replies, wavering slightly under the assault of concentrated magic, “You’re a monster.” His voice firms as he continues. “I am a savior. I _will_ save this Earth, no matter what you have to say about it; like children, the mortals reject me, knowing nothing of what they need! You can help me, Harry. The system failed you. Under my reign, no child will ever be treated again like you were at the Dursleys—”

“He’s never been in my mind, I would have felt it. The Hallows protect me,” says Harry quickly.

“An eternity,” Doom croons. 

“Answer the question. Who.” Tom doubles the magic converging on Doom.

Doom gasps slightly. “You were holding back. Voldemort―”

“Excuse me,” interjects Harry, holding his hands behind his back to hide their clenching. “Please. Tell me who gave you this information, and we won’t have to be difficult with each other.” He widens his eyes and tilts his head to catch the light, parts his lips and trembles slightly. “And I don’t want to be difficult with you.”

Doom sneers, but the shake in his voice belies how affected he is. “Pathetic. You still stand with mortals. You are above them.”

“Consider this a gesture of confidence,” says Tom, _tripling_ his magical assault on Doom, the insane man. “We cannot work with one we do not trust.”

Doom looks thrown. It may be on purpose; they’re all playing games with each other, at this point. “It is a power outside of the realm of Midgard.” He breathes in heavily. “Ask your― your Asgardian friends. They will know his name. The Mad Titan knows yours.”

Tom is overly aware of the potential falsity of the information. He lets up on the magic anyway; they’re not going to get much else out of Doom. “Now, that wasn’t so bad. Is it not much better to converse in a civilized manner?”

Doom grins, off the hook for now. “You’ll find me very civilized,” he purrs, and winks at Harry. “Especially over dinner.”

“I already have a megalomaniac in my life, thanks,” Harry responds, taken aback. (Tom thinks to his half-formed courting plans and resolves to drink some cement, and Merlin help him, ask Lucius for help.)

“Does he truly satisfy you? Does _he_ own a country?” Doom eyes Tom, who is apparently competition. “I assure you, I am properly appreciative of my lovers, unlike this _freak_.”

Harry flinches minutely. “Please don’t use that word,” he says, polite, but with steel in his eyes. “And please don’t press. We are not lovers, but my answer is still no.”

(Tom feels somewhat relieved that Doom has so neatly ruined his chances with Harry. Not that Doom would have been a formidable rival, anyways, if he had no idea of Harry’s sensitivity to that word.)

“Worth a shot.” Doom’s gaze rakes up and down Harry with smoldering heat. “You’re just my type—”

“We are done here,” Tom announces, and herds Harry to the door.

Doom chuckles behind them. “Not for long,” his voice, low and insidious, follows them.

**Hp Hp Hp**

“PHASE 2?” Harry echoes after Stark curiously, arriving in the lab with Tom in tow.

Steve pushes past them to drop a HYDRA assault rifle on the table, looking _pissed_. “PHASE 2 is SHIELD, using the cube to make weapons.” Fury, Banner, and Stark turn around. Steve nods to Stark.

“Rogers,” Fury tries to explain, futilely, “we gathered everything related to the Tesseract. This does not mean that we’re…”

“I’m sorry, Nick,” Stark says, and rotates the computer screen towards them, showing plans of weapons and a folder labeled ‘PHASE 2’. “You were lying.”

Harry glances at Tom’s contemplative expression and decides to keep quiet and assess the situation.

The Disappointed Face descends upon Fury, courtesy of Steve. “I was wrong, director. The world hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Did you know about this?” Banner asks, addressing Natasha and Clint, who walk in, and Harry and Tom. Thor follows Natasha in, scowl deepening as he spots Loki. Harry feels his concern rise for the bruises under Clint’s eyes.

Harry shakes his head mutely. Tom’s face is blank.

Natasha’s hand hovers above her hip. “You wanna think about removing yourself from this environment, doctor?”

Bruce starts, “I was pretty well removed in—”

“You dare insult our Lord?” Lucius interjects, his eyes flashing. “That he would fall back on such— such—”

“I,” Loki smoothly inserts himself into the conversation, “would rather like to know why mortals seek to harness the Tesseract, a weapon beyond their control, for such petty reasons as to invite ruin from realms they know not.”

“Because of them,” Fury says into the ensuing silence. He gestures broadly to encompass Harry, Tom, Lucius, Snape, Stephen, Thor and Loki. 

“Us,” says Harry, dreading what he is about to hear, at the same time that Thor says, stunned, “Me?”

Fury breathes. “A few decades ago, magic users began appearing in New York, quickly building a dangerous conglomerate that is now stationed around the world and wields power and influence we struggle to comprehend, let alone keep up with. Mr. Riddle, here, runs this; luckily for us, he is not hostile. Last year, Earth had a visitor from another planet who had a grudge match that leveled a small town. We learned that not only are we not alone, but we are hopelessly, hilariously outgunned.”

“My people want nothing but peace with your planet,” says Thor. Harry squeezes Tom’s hand.

“But you’re not the only people out there, are you?” Fury argues. “And the world’s filling up with people who can’t be matched. People who can’t be controlled.”

Harry shudders. “That’s right,” he speaks up. “They _can’t_ be controlled. You can’t bring this down on yourself. You know what world I— we come from?”

“An alternate universe, yes,” Fury says, looking interested for new information despite himself.

“Well, we’re wizards,” says Harry. “And when the non magicals like you found out we’d been living separate from them for all this time, they tried their best to _control_ us. Guess how it worked out for them? Yeah, not well. They messed with powers beyond their purview, and our planet was destroyed because of it.” Heat and ashes and terrible screams flash behind his eyes when he blinks. “These sorts of things get out of hand more easily than anyone imagines.”

“Your work with the Tesseract is what drew the Mad Titan’s attention,” Loki says finally. “You signal to all the realms that Midgard is ready for a higher form of war.”

“The Mad Titan?” Thor exclaims. “I thought we dealt with the enemy— the mortal man, of your Latveria!”

“We had a chat,” says Tom.

Steve raises a hand. “Wait, a higher form?”

“You forced our hand,” Fury says heavily. “We had to come up with something.”

Some of the magic users look offended at being pinned for the blame, but before they can say anything, Stark points out sarcastically, “Nuclear deterrent. ‘Cause that always calms everything right down.”

“Remind me again how you made your fortune, Stark?”

“I’m sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck deep—” Steve says, meaning it as a sort of roundabout defense, but Stark takes it the wrong way.

“Wait! Wait! Hold on! How is this now about me?”

“I thought humans were more evolved than this,” Thor comments.

Loki scoffs. “The Midgardians have always been young and naive compared to the other realms.”

“Excuse me, did _we_ come to _your_ planet and blow stuff up?” Fury puffs up his chest in outrage. Righteous, it may be, but the room falls into mayhem, accusations flying, conflicts growing. The scepter glows.

Harry can’t get a single word in. Dammit, he’s too short to be noticed, and Tom isn’t _doing_ anything.

Harry takes a deep breath and _screams_. The room stops and stares. 

“Cathartic,” Harry says, utterly calm. “Now that everybody’s listening. Somebody take the staff from Bruce.”

Bruce looks down at the staff he’s holding in surprise and drops it like a hot coal. Its clanging impact against the ground echoes in the lab. Not a soul moves.

“Good.” Harry’s mild expression doesn’t change, but the room’s occupants are suddenly aware of an _edge_ sharpening his voice. “ _Children_ , the lot of you.” Those who know him well shrink back, guiltily terrified. “You fling these baseless accusations at each other with little regard for the bigger picture. Your personal vendettas, they _do not matter one whit_. Right now, it matters only that we can stop Doom from sending the Tesseract to the Mad Titan. Sort out your issues later; sort out SHIELD’s activity later.” A pause. “You _dunderheads_ ,” he can’t resist adding.

Tom audibly facepalms behind him. “You were doing well up until that point.”

“I’m not made for monologuing,” Harry mutters. He thought he’d done pretty well, considering. Maybe some of Tom’s eloquence is rubbing off on him; he hopes none of the pedantic condescension does as well. “What are we doing with Doom, anyway?”

“Well,” Fury begins, somewhat confused but mostly relieved and taking it, “he—”

“Oh, my God!”

An explosion rocks the Helicarrier. Everyone is thrown in every direction. Harry lands on Tom against the wall; luckily, he’s not that heavy.

“Sharp elbows,” Tom grumbles beneath him, before lifting himself and Harry up. Harry, used to the manhandling, allows it.

“Put on the suit!” Harry hears Steve call, probably to Tony, a bit of panic in his voice.

“Yep!”

Fury sits up, holding his ribs. He puts on his earpiece. “Hill?!”

Harry’s hearing is suddenly enhanced when Tom’s hand cups his head. In the background of Fury’s audio feed, pandemonium erupts. Harry’s respect for Agent Hill increases tenfold as she keeps the bridge calm and pinpoints the problem efficiently. 

“Engine 3 is down; somebody’s got to get inside and patch it,” Hill reports. “And at all entrance points from the upper deck and runway— swarms of robots—”

“Doombots,” another agent corrects. “I recognize them from the debacle with Reed Richards before."

Fury sends Stark and Steve out for the engine, initializes lockdown via Coulson and Hill, and looks to Harry and Tom with some desperation. 

“We’ll defend you,” Harry promises. He makes sure all the magic users are up, then sprints for the deck. Tom _cracks_ away for reinforcements.

Only Loki and Fury don’t follow; Fury for his ribs, and Loki… stops Thor before he leaves as well.

“Are you not helping?” Fury gasps in pain and presses his lips together.

Loki looks at him with that condescending expression that always rubs him the wrong way. A roar of rage and pounding footsteps sound from the lower equipment room where Romanoff and Banner had fallen. Loki smiles mischievously. “The Hulk.”

Fury watches the pair disappear, one conjuring knives out of thin air and the other eyeing his brother before hefting his hammer. Now, to stand up… 

Meanwhile, Harry blazes a path to the Detention section of the Helicarrier, hoping Lucius will be able to take care of the agent who was lying too still against the wall there. 

Doom is sitting in the middle of the cell, smug, somehow particularly menacing. He stands as Harry enters warily. “Ah. Just who I’ve been waiting for.”

“Right,” says Harry, drawing his holly wand.

“Such a fascinating form of magic.” Doom grins, disarmingly charming. “What _did_ become of the Asset?”

Harry blurts, “I thought that was HYDRA.”  
  
“Useful, but ultimately a small concern,” says Doom, dismissive. “You, on the other hand…”

Doom is out of the cell in an instant, armor on, diving towards Harry. Harry’s reflexes save him from a brutal punch that shreds the wall behind where his head had been. 

“How’d you break the wards?” Harry asks as he casts, not really hoping for an answer. Doom, though, obliges him.

“Easily,“ he sneers, his voice now modulated by his mask. Well. Obliges him with an answer, not a helpful one. A blast of some energy out of his gauntlets— when and how had he reacquired those, anyway?— slams into the glass cell, which holds up. The ship rocks.

Harry is sweating. His reserves hadn’t yet replenished fully from the fiendfyre in Stuttgart, and Doom is no ordinary opponent. He doesn’t have enough juice to shield Doom’s overpowered punches every time he can’t dodge. He really should end this early. 

Thor appears out of nowhere and charges Doom. Doom dodges, only to be hit by an unexpected swing of Mjolnir, the hammer. 

“Are you alright?” Thor looks adorably concerned. 

Harry shakes his head, his reserves having dropped to a quarter of capacity, and says, “I’m fine. Nothing more than bruises. He’s—”

Harry flings himself onto Thor. Thor is heavier than he’d guessed, and his body doesn’t move much, but he quickly catches on; he spins them around to meet the brunt of the attack with Mjolnir. The robot, for clearly it is one, is torn apart, shrapnel flying. Harry hastily shields.

Doom reenters, stepping gingerly through the hole his flying body had made. A second robot hems them in from the other side. It shines strangely, silver instead of black like the others Harry has seen, and it smells of some acid.

A moment. Then they fight.

Harry takes the shiny robot, and Thor takes Doom. Harry has a split second to feel dread curl in his gut, as the robot aims not for lethal points but merely for skin contact, before his magic starts to drain at an alarming rate. He blasts it off with a _bombarda_ ; it returns several blasts of its own and lunges back as Harry is dodging.

“A special one, just for you!” Doom hollers from across the room, and grimaces as Thor slams him into the glass cell, in which cracks appear. Doom promptly explodes, having been a robot all along. Metal shards bite into Thor’s exposed skin; Thor is more alarmed with Harry’s struggling.

A bolt of energy knocks the robot off of Harry, who clutches at his throat in relief. Agent Coulson, near the control panels for the cell, aims a PHASE 2 weapon prototype. “Even I don’t know what it does,” he remarks, stoic as always. “Do you wanna find out?”

The robot stands, presses its fingers to hinges on its jaw. The mask, for it is a mask, releases, and the robot isn’t a robot at all, but the actual Doom. “Oooh, so much _conviction_ ,” he says, and—

Coulson shoots. Doom is seemingly blown through the wall again, except his image flickers right before the blast hits, and he’s behind Coulson instead. Coulson, who only stands there with a satisfaction about him, saying, “So that’s what it does—”

“Watch out!” Harry shrieks, heaving himself up. Thor hurls Mjolnir, too late. 

A sickening squelch sounds, and the point of a blade glints on Coulson’s chest. Doom cackles and retracts the blade, revealing his hold on the sceptre. Coulson slumps to the floor as Doom’s laugh is cut off by Mjolnir, which actually makes contact this time.

“Fuck, Thor! Get me to him.”

Thor picks Harry up carefully and quickly carries him over, a light of hope dawning on him. “You can save him?”

Harry doesn’t respond, but reaches into himself for healing magic he barely has and wishes for Tom. Then again, Tom is probably busy with the robot invasion, he thinks dimly. Fury rushes in, tries to keep Coulson awake.

“No. I’m clocked out here,” Coulson says, speaking over Fury’s denial. “It’s okay, boss. This was never going to work… if they didn’t have something… to…” He turns his head to the side and sighs.

“Call Tom,” Harry tells Fury. Fury, his expression undecipherable, doesn’t move. Harry lifts his eyes to look at him. 

“Call Tom,” Harry repeats, growing more desperate with Fury’s inaction, “I don’t have the magic, call Tom!”

Fury raises his hand to his earpiece, slowly. Something’s wrong; Harry doesn’t want to believe it.

“Oh, Merlin help us, he’s slipping away,” Harry chokes out, pushing his reserves, welcoming the itch of magical exhaustion in his veins. “Please, call Tom. Director Fury, what are you doing?”

Fury opens his mouth. Instead of calling for help, he says: “Agent Coulson is down.”

“Paramedics are on their way,” an agent responds over the comm.

“They’re not needed,” says Fury, with finality, and turns his earpiece off.

“What?” Harry whispers. His volume increases. “What? Why the ever not?? He’s still— still—”

“He is still a comrade. You would betray him?” Thor asks, bewildered.

Fury stands and waves the paramedics in. “Don’t be stupid. You heard what he said. I will honor his sacrifice. The Avengers need this push if they ever are to work together. I trust,” he says sternly to Harry and Thor’s flabbergasted expressions, “that you will keep this to yourselves. We _need_ this to work, for the fate of our planet.”

Thor opens his mouth. Then closes it. 

“This is cruel,” Harry says at last.

Fury shakes his head, watching the medics carry Coulson’s body out on a stretcher. “This is necessary.”

**Hp Hp Hp**

“These were in Phil Coulson’s jacket,” Fury tells them, throwing Captain America trading cards on the table towards Steve. Steve picks them up; they’re stained with blood. Numb devastation flashes across his features.

Gradually, as Fury explains the Avengers Initiative, a determination overtakes Steve’s expression.

Things move quickly after that. Harry cannot help but think that Coulson is going to _murder_ Fury when he finds out that Fury mutilated his most prized possessions for this farce.

**Hp Hp Hp**

“Take care of these, alright? It’s how we’ll communicate. Keep the noise to official business only; no chatter.” Here, Steve looks at Tony sternly. He’s right, in that the silence of the comms isn’t going to last, but little does he know… Tony actually keeps his mouth shut, turns his input off when he’s busy threatening Doom at the top of his tower. It’s the _others._

“I’ve missed this,” says Harry, a scant minute after diving out of the plane into the chaos of New York being invaded by Chitauri and Doombots. A yell of agony is his faint background noise.

A few moments later, a piercing shriek over the line causes Steve to wince and turn his volume down. Harry tacks on, conversationally, “Not the ‘world on fire’ part, but the ‘fighting with friends’ part.”

“It’s a shame they usually go hand in hand,” he continues, accompanied by suspicious cracking sounds.

Clint responds. “I know what you mean, right, Nat?”

“Please shut up,” says Snape, sour and with little hope.

“No,” Harry, Clint, and Loki say.

“Loki, you weren’t even talking.”

“Now I am,” says Loki, sounding inordinately satisfied.

“Look,” Strange sighs, “look at what you’ve done.”

“Harry, don’t look, there’s blood.” Loki is apparently still clinging to the notion that Harry needs protection. (Tom, the one most would expect to be more protective of Harry’s innocence, is the one actively encouraging Harry’s inner sadist.)

(“Who are you talking to?” Thor’s voice is muffled over Loki’s line. He’d fried his own communicator with lightning early on.)

“I’ve just strangled a Chitauri with its own entrails,” says Harry. “Don’t talk to me about blood. Tom, no.”

“What?” The innocence dripping from Tom’s voice fools no one who knows him. “I won’t say that I just force fed a brain to a jugular, but I did kill a Chitauri.”

Harry can’t believe he’s friends with this fool. What is wrong with him.

“All for you, darling,” Tom adds. 

“So that’s what’s wrong with me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Steve, breathing hard, says, “Are you fighting or gossiping at a sleepover??”

Clint replies, mock offended, “Excuse me, during sleepovers we _plot world domination_.”

“Hey, Tom, look, a friend!” Harry jokes.

“I don’t share secrets with rivals,” Tom says, voice serious. Harry laughs and sends a _sectumsempra_ at another group of aliens. 

“Thank you, thank you.” The civilians he’s saved are wide eyed and some are going into shock, but Harry can’t stop.

“Run until you feel stupid running,” he tells them, and continues moving.

They’ve spread out over the city with backup from SHIELD and the NYPD. New York’s minor heroes have also come out in full force; Harry doesn’t doubt that Wade and James must be among them. Harry sees many strange things, and hears many strange quips. For instance:

“We have a party!” Stark announces. “I’m bringing it to you!” He whizzes past, chased by an enormous Leviathan monster thing Harry doesn’t even know how to _begin_ to describe.

Natasha says, dry, “I don’t see how that’s a party.” And just as Harry dashes around the corner, wand ready, he sees chunks of meat raining down, sizzling as they hit the pavement, Steve using his shield like an umbrella, and a huge, green, muscled dude roaring in anger, presumably being the Hulk, Dr. Banner’s alter ego.

“Oh dear,” says Harry, faint, really wanting a mug of tea right about now.

And then, as if the situation wasn’t bad enough already, thousands more Chitauri soldiers and Leviathans pour out of the portal in the sky.

Steve calls it. “Alright, listen up. Until the magicals can close that portal up there, we’re gonna use containment.”

Harry doesn’t wait for the rest. He knows what he must do; he turns on his heel and apparates— or he tries to, before his world goes dark.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

Tom appears at the top of Stark Tower. He thinks that Harry, with his soft heart, would hate the view of the city’s pointless destruction. Tom himself can’t muster up an ounce of sympathy— only an annoyance for the work it will create for him.

Harry is standing with his back to Tom, on the other side of the roof. His posture is placid, not agitated; Tom doesn’t think much of it, too focused on the surge of affection that rises in him.

“Harry,” he says, his voice impossibly fond, though the circumstances could be better.

Harry turns around languidly, his expression uncommonly serious, his beautiful eyes concealed under the glare of the sun on his glasses. He takes a step forward, into the shadow of the machine powering the portal in the sky, and the corners of his pink lips quirk upwards. Tom’s breath catches. Because—

Harry’s eyes are blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles, sprints into the distance*


	8. Is It Really a Rumor, Though

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tfw you are mind controlled until you're brutally injured and forced to attack your bae but then the nurses won't bring you tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the end of this chapter we'll know who actually remembers the chapter titles
> 
> much love to [jadejabberwock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadejabberwock/) for the beta and the chapter summary! (i need to stop laughing) <3

8 Is It _Really_ a Rumor, Though

  
  


**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

In Tom’s shock, Harry manages to close the distance between them and press a knife to his jugular— but Harry pauses. Tom still draws breath. And Harry had used a muggle implement instead of a spell, _and_ neglected to short out Tom’s comm.

Tom’s heart soars. “Harry,” he says urgently, heedful of imminent death— not too worried. “Harry. You resist my _imperio_ , and yet a paltry power holds you? Weak. Come back to me, Harry—”

“He will not,” Doom interjects. The masked man dives to the side as Tom’s spells destroy where he was. The knife presses forward, drawing a thin line of red at Tom’s neck. Doom straightens. “You think this,” he gestures to Harry, “is _mercy_? No. He is under my control. He cannot resist. I could command him to drop to his knees and suck—”

Tom _snarls_ and discovers that he is bound. Bound by _Harry’s_ magic. There is not a single flicker of awareness in Harry’s eyes.

Doom smirks. “Don’t move, Tom, dear— I’ll kill him.” Harry eases the blade from Tom’s throat and— brings it up to his own. He steps back, his gaze vacant and blue.

“An empty threat,” replies Tom evenly, testing the limits of his bindings.

Doom motions to Harry. Harry grasps the pendant, which is missing the triangle, with his free hand. “I abnegate—” he begins, and Tom stills.

Unacceptable. But Harry’s magic holds him in place after wrenching his wand out of his hand, and Tom has never pitted his wandless power against the Elder Wand before. So he bides his time, calculating.

“Get him out of our way,” Doom orders. Harry delivers a blow to Tom’s temple with the handle of the knife— or he almost does. It stops a hair’s breadth away from contact and a flicker of green flashes in Harry’s eyes. Tom plays along, jerking his head back as if from the impact, relaxing his limbs and feigning unconsciousness. He twists during his fall so his unbruised temple will be hidden from Doom.

“The Chitauri are _so_ pathetic,” he hears Doom mutter to himself, “breaking ranks and causing unnecessary havoc. I shall have to _talk_ to the Other about _honoring_ our agreements… bah! Better not waste precious energy on them. Harry!”

Harry’s boots scuff on the ground as he shuffles away from Tom.

“Hold them… here… and here… these paths, _no deviations_ , understand?”

“Yes, sir,” answers Harry, in the soft voice that Harry has only allowed when he feels completely relaxed and safe. Tom has only heard it thrice; Harry had admitted to him that it reminds him too much of the demure nature the Dursleys preferred him to adopt.

Hearing it now— Tom embraces the numb fury that sweeps through his mind.

“How long do you estimate to be able to control the army for?”

“At least an hour and a half, sir,” Harry murmurs.

“That should be more than enough time. Keep an eye on Riddle there, he’s a slippery fellow.”

Harry’s quiet “Yes, sir” is said to thin air— Tom can tell exactly when Doom leaves, for his grating magical presence fades from Tom’s senses.

Judging from the interaction, Tom surmises that Doom has a more coherent plan than the haphazard invasion the Chitauri have been conducting. In Doom’s position, with the goal of eventual world domination (Doom, for all his drama, is predictable)... most likely, Doom intends to broadcast an announcement to sway the public opinion to his side before moving in on the existing government. 

It is, grudgingly, not a bad plan: cause havoc and present yourself as the solution. Pity that Doom picked _Harry_ to be a part of it; now Tom will never forgive him.

Tom waits patiently. On top of Stark Tower, the destruction of the city below is muted; more prominent are the whirring from the machine, which the astrophysicist Selvig operates, and the clacking and chittering from the Chitauri pouring through the portal. 

Once Tom hears Harry panting from magical strain, he moves.

As soon as he springs up, Harry whirls around. He curses Harry’s sixth sense for danger. It would have been better used at any other time. Harry’s eyes flare with glowing blue; he whimpers and turns back to watching the streets below, where his magic guides the Chitauri onto Doom’s paths. 

Tom’s heartbeat settles. So Harry cannot disobey a direct order, but he cannot take initiative either. Thank Merlin. It makes sense— Harry would be uncontrollable without complete command; he takes leeway with even Tom’s simple directives to take care of himself.

Tom creeps up behind Harry, so as to avoid triggering anything. Once he’s breathing down Harry’s neck, he carefully reaches down and snatches Harry’s glasses off his face, drops them over the edge of the roof.

Instant chaos below. 

Tom ducks under Harry’s fist and backs away, reaches a hand up to his right ear to turn on his comm’s audio just in time to hear Rogers ask “ _What’s the story upstairs?_ ”

“Harry is compromised, I’ve disabled him, I’m near the machine powering the portal,” Tom reports quickly, then swears as Harry’s head tilts uncannily in his direction. His quick shield is shattered by a _flipendo_. “Tell me how to turn this stupid thing off.” He apparates to the edge of the roof opposite Harry, muffling the _crack_. Harry continues to pulverize the concrete where he’d been standing.

“ _Stark?"_ prompts Rogers in between crashing and squelching sounds.

“ _I told you we have a Hulk!_ ” Stark crows through the line, a fraction of a second before Doom’s body is thrown through a window of a distant skyscraper. Something large and green dives after the man.

Doom deserves worse. “Stark,” Tom risks saying aloud.

“ _I’m coming up,_ ” replies Stark. “ _J_ _esus, what’s going on up there? You good?_ ”

“No,” says Tom shortly, bleeding from a gash in his left thigh— a stray _sectumsempra—_ and rather short of breath. “Harry is not nearly disabled enough. I cannot get to the portal machine.” Thank Merlin Harry had given the Cloak to Loki; dealing with an invisible opponent would have been infinitely worse.

How long does it take a man in a _flying suit_ to traverse _one floor?_

“I’m here, and I have the staff,” says Romanoff, leaping off of a Chitauri-flying-motorcycle vehicle and executing a graceful roll onto the roof. Tom shoots a _muffliato_ towards her shoes a fraction of a second before Romanoff flings herself to the side, out of the way of Harry’s spells and towards Selvig, who seems to be breaking out of his mind-controlled stupor.

Tom briefly considers calling for help with Harry. He dismisses the notion. Harry would destroy anybody else. Tom draws Harry’s attention with renewed determination. It is becoming marginally easier as Harry’s movements stutter more and more often. 

Doom’s mind control must be weakening. Perhaps it is due to his being beaten up by the Hulk.

“ _Shoot_ ,” says Stark.

“I can close it!” Romanoff yells suddenly. Tom takes a chance and tackles Harry, so neither of them can see what Romanoff and Selvig are up to. “Can anybody hear me? I can shut the portal down!”

Tom grits his teeth against Harry’s flailing limbs. He has to pry Harry’s vicious fingers from his throat. Would Romanoff stop _announcing_ herself?

“ _Do it!”_ chokes out Rogers over the comms.

“ _No, wait!_ ”

“ _Stark, these things are still coming!_ ”

“ _I got a nuke coming in, it’s gonna blow in less than a minute. And I know just where to put it._ ”

“ _Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip?_ ” Rogers says, sounding panicked. “ _We have magicals, we_ —”

“ _They’re all busy, won't get here in time,_ ” says Stark, and his line cuts off.

Under Tom, Harry abruptly sags, his strings cut.

“Tom?” he asks weakly. “What’s going on?” A horrified expression steals its way across his features. “I— Oh…” 

Tom turns Harry onto his side just as Harry starts to throw up. He rubs soothing circles into Harry’s back and decides against telling him about Stark. If Harry had recovered a few minutes earlier, they might have been able to contain the nuke’s explosion, to prevent the unnecessary loss of this asset… no matter. It is not Harry’s fault. He spares no hope towards Stark’s survival, and focuses instead on Harry.

“I—”

Harry is interrupted by Rogers’ relieved “Son of a gun!” 

“What’s that?” asks Harry again, blindly reaching for Tom’s hand and missing by a kilometer, but trusting Tom to guide him. His comm must still be working. Tom pinches it out of Harry’s ear and ignores the chatter in his own. The Hulk’s roar echoes so loudly that Tom can hear it without the earpiece. 

“Worry not,” answers Tom. His voice is raspy from the rising dust and smoke, and he vaguely recalls Harry getting ahold of his throat at one point. “I believe the battle is mostly over, in our favor.”

“Battles don’t end in anybody’s favor,” Romanoff says shrewdly, picking her way through the debris to Tom and Harry. “The Chitauri were all disabled when Stark nuked their mothership. I’m keeping an eye on the Tesseract and Selvig; Stark’s already talking, in case you were wondering.” (Tom wasn’t.) “He wants to go out for shawarma. Can you sense Doom?”

Tom attempts to extend his senses, pauses when his injuries and magical exhaustion make themselves known, then forces his magic to bend to his will anyway.

“He’s right below us, on the street,” says Tom eventually. “Injured, most likely unconscious. His magic is placid.”

“That thriced-damned hell of a fucker,” swears Harry, with heat. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits up. Tom hurries to support him. He motions towards his head and says, “Hey, Tom, make sure he’s all gone up here, won’t you?”

“Wait,” says Romanoff from the edge of the roof. “There’s somebody calling for you. Down in the street with Doom’s body. Red and black suit, katanas on his back, obnoxious voice? Ring a bell?”

“ _Riddle! Harrykins, kiddo, anybody hooome?_ ” drifts up to Tom faintly. Tom grimaces.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he answers. “I don’t have much magic now, Harry, so we’ll find Severus. Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. He winces as he stands and takes in the destruction he’d wrought. “... Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you standing up?”

“I’ll be a moment. On second thought, I’ll summon Severus here.” Tom wrangles his protesting magic to pulse through Severus’ Dark Mark.

Harry’s eyes narrow suspiciously at a spot to Tom’s left. “ _Tom…_ ”

“He can bring Wilson and Doom up as well.” Presumably, James is still hiding from SHIELD, if Wilson is the only one here. Severus can heal them both, conjure glasses for Harry— Tom _will_ convince Harry to correct his vision someday; then, when the Tesseract is at least guarded by SHIELD, Tom can individually assess the Avengers and start on what he’s going to do about the city’s cleanup.

“Tom, your _leg_ ,” gasps Harry, who had discovered the gash in Tom’s thigh in Tom’s distraction. Tom must be more tired than he’d thought.

“Stop breathing on it,” Tom says irritably. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t see,” says Harry, his lip trembling, his fingers fluttering uselessly about the wound. “ _I_ did that to you, didn’t I? Does it hurt? Silly question, of course it hurts— I’m so sorry, Tom, I should have been paying more attention—“

Before Tom can cut off his rambling, Stark bursts through the penthouse’s glass doors. He shouldn’t be able _burst_ , with how badly he’s beaten up, but Rogers supports him, so he manages it.

“My roof!” Stark cries.

The rest of the newly-minted Avengers file out onto the roof, behind him. Snape and Wilson follow. Wilson carries Doom’s body irreverently slung over his shoulder.

“Tough luck,” whistles Wilson upon seeing Tom, dumping Doom’s body on some rubble. Tom’s vision fills with red; he is distracted from rash action by Harry’s wobbly “Who’s here?”.

“Snape,” Tom calls, and Severus hurries over.

“My Lor— Riddle.” Snape corrects himself. “Where—”

He is also interrupted, this time by Bella, who also bursts out of the penthouse’s glass doors, shrieking incoherently. Harry flinches. As she nears, Harry raises the Elder Wand, which he has not yet let go of.

“Bella,” says Tom swiftly, hoping to head off any confrontation. 

“ _I saw you, it was you!_ ” are the words she’s hurling at Harry. Harry’s rapidly paling and shaking and—

Bella collapses.

“For the sake of Merlin,” Snape drawls, having silenced Bella with a _dormio_. “Let me at him.” He pushes past Harry, who swipes at his passing in blind confusion, and kneels next to Tom.

“Glasses for Harry, first,” Tom commands, but Snape never gets to do it because Harry sways and topples over. Snape discovers that Harry’s dangerous levels of magical exhaustion are not being helped by his intestines trying their best to jump out of his gut wound.

There’s a bit of chaos after that.

**Sr Sr Sr**

After shawarma, which is less triumphant and more melancholy, Steve discovers that nobody on the team really _likes_ the hospital. With some smart applications of the Disappointed Face, though, everybody eventually gets at least a check-up. Harry and Stark are the only ones who are absolutely not allowed to leave, one being unconscious and the other being unable to move. (Riddle and his posse argue this point, but Loki steers them towards the conclusion that moving Harry is Not a Good Idea.)

Most everybody else escapes. Riddle departs after thoroughly warding Harry’s room with magic and leaving a rotating guard, off to do the sort of bureaucratic nonsense Steve’s never particularly cared for. Natasha and Clint are who knows where. Thor has cornered Loki, and last Steve saw, the nurses were inching around the pair and there was already a hole in the wall. Strange, come to think of it, never even arrived at the hospital, and Bruce… actually, what happened to Bruce?

“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Stark, but d’you know where Dr. Banner is?” Steve asks, poking his head into Stark’s room.

Stark is staring at the ceiling, up to his neck in bandages and plaster and medical things. He frowns. “Stop it with the ‘doctor’ thing. Didn’t I tell you already?”

“No?”

“Well, stop that. It’s just Stark. None of that uptight business.” Stark lolls his head towards Steve and grins, lopsided and easy; Steve feels something flip in his stomach. “I put Brucie up in a hotel. He’s gonna stay in Stark Tower with us, which— didn’t I offer already? Did you answer?”

“Uh?” says Steve.

“Sure! I’d be happy to lodge you. Your current apartment is crap, by the way, how you were living in that thing is beyond me. My place is so much better. Of course it is— I’m Tony Stark. Eh? Pepper’s gonna arrive in five, so why _are_ you still here?” Tony finally pauses for a mystified breath to wait, expectantly, for Steve’s reply.

“Uh,” Steve repeats, and pinches himself on the forearm. “I just— can we start over?” he blurts.

“What?” Stark looks completely blindsided.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” says Steve, fully committing to the new topic. “I mean, I’m sorry. I know I needled you more than I should’ve, and I brought up some sore points, and it wasn’t all due to the scepter— I think, after fighting off an alien invasion together, we can let bygones be bygones? You’re a good sort, and I admire you, _not_ for that stunt you pulled with the nuclear missile, that was _highly_ irresponsible of you— I mean— I think, can we start over? Sorry.” He has to stop, his face heating up. Foot, meet mouth.

“Uh,” says Stark, echoing Steve’s earlier sentiments. “Well, that’s… okay.”

“Okay,” says Steve awkwardly. He steels himself and almost holds out a hand but then remembers that Stark can’t exactly take it. “I’m Steve Rogers. I knew your father.”

Stark’s grin abruptly drops off of his face. “Good for you, then,” he says stiffly, “because _I_ certainly did not.”

Bewildered, but sensing that he’s hit another sore point— Christ, Stark is a _minefield—_ Steve backpedals. “I mean, I’m just Steve Rogers! Sorry, gosh, I…” he flounders before just going for honesty. “What does a person even say to that? Sorry. Forgive me?”

Stark groans. “Jesus, you’re too— too _ugh_ to be mad at.” Steve doesn’t get the chance to ask what that means, because a redheaded lady enters the room, exuding a no-nonsense aura Steve is wary to cross.

“Pepper!” Stark exclaims delightedly, and Steve morosely finds that Stark’s reaction to _him_ had been positively glacial in comparison. “Happy! Hey, Rhodes!” 

Steve sidles around them and out of the room while Stark’s visitors fuss over him. He’ll have to try again some other time.

The next day, he dithers at the door of Stark’s hospital room for a bit, but then a low murmur drifts out to him and he retreats.

The day after that— there are still voices. Steve visits Harry, which is suitably depressing. Harry can usually fill a room with his presence, but the lump he makes beneath the hospital sheets is… small. Even with all the jokes about Harry’s size, it hasn’t really hit Steve, until now, how small Harry is.

And he looks so _young_. Steve remembers some casual quipping— Fury had said that Harry is older than _Steve_ , which makes no sense whatsoever. Is it a magic thing? Loki and Thor are old, but they're fancily named _aliens_. Asgardians. He’d ask, but Riddle is… intimidating. So are Greyback and the others of Riddle’s people, and Loki would probably lie to Steve for the hell of it… Steve would ask Harry, but Harry isn’t exactly responsive.

Steve backs out of the room. Depressing.

To keep busy, he helps out with New York’s cleanup, moving rubble and occasionally yelling into a bullhorn, because people tend to listen to Captain America. Fury praises him for the good PR, though half the time Steve doesn’t go out in uniform. When he’s not ‘working,’ he’s wandering the city, finally ready to find out what he’s missed in the past seventy years. Sometimes it seems like everything’s different— even the bananas aren’t the same, and Steve isn’t sure how to feel about that.

It is only a few days later that New York wakes up to find that all of the Chitauri’s bodies, which had been gruesome and stinking up the streets, are gone, only a lingering taste of ashes left behind. Riddle has a satisfied look on his face and Fury looks pleased. And overnight, the identities of many human bodies are found. Steve is glad that Riddle seems to be on SHIELD’s side.

“We’re indebted to Tony Stark,” somebody tells Steve after a week has passed. “Without his monetary support, we’d still be knee-deep in broken bits of alien and concrete.” Steve has to blink at that. Stark hadn’t advertised this good deed at all— at least, not on the internet, which Steve is slowly getting used to. Nothing flamboyant, contrary to the media’s general opinion of him. Steve grows more and more convinced that the public persona, the partying playboy, is some sort of front.

Armed with this revelation, Steve intends to confront Stark again. He’ll do better than last time, he’ll clarify everything, and he’ll ask what Stark meant with that “too _ugh_ to be mad at” comment. He marches to the hospital.

When he passes Harry’s room, some raised voices catch his attention. He doesn’t recognize either of them, so he checks in, just in case.

“Hello?” he says, poking his head into the doorway, and a large person clad in a red suit shrieks like a little girl, hopping awkwardly to the side. Steve plasters on a polite smile while he grimaces in his head. He steps into the room. “I’m Steve Rogers, a friend of Harry’s. And you are?”

“Deadpool,” says the red-clad man, shuffling to the side again. Steve’s smile becomes a little fixed. SHIELD’s told him plenty about the mercenary, and it’s not all good.

“Nice to meet you,” says Steve. It occurs to him that he hasn’t planned out what to say next. “I— um, I heard you arguing?”

“No!” yelps Deadpool hastily. “Holy chimichangas, _no_ ! I was just arguing with— myself!” Steve almost buys into it, because SHIELD’s files do say that Deadpool has split personality disorder, but Deadpool continues. “I’m a bit cuckoo up here, you see, you understand, about— what I was going to eat for dinner. I was arguing about what I was going to have for dinner, which is _clearly_ going to be Mexican food! Because that's superior to beef stew." He says this sentence pointedly. "So I was arguing about it.”

There are a lot of words, spoken very quickly, and Steve is confused by them. But he takes Harry’s safety seriously, and Deadpool’s body language… 

“What are you hiding behind your back?” says Steve suspiciously, walking forward to look.

“Nothing!” Deadpool insists as Steve nears, still shifting minutely.

“Why don’t you let me through?” demands Steve, now ready to fight whatever it may be.

He ignores Deadpool’s “Please don’t!” and pushes past the muscle. There’s… 

… nothing. 

The light curtains of the lone window billow out in the summer breeze.

“Hm,” says Steve, turning back to Deadpool, who looks so relieved that there must be _something_ he doesn’t want Steve to find. He narrows his eyes and Deadpool visibly fidgets, but even under the full force of the Disappointed Face, he remains tight-lipped. “Fine,” Steve finally says, then warns, “I’m watching you.”

He walks purposefully out of the room and then sneakily doubles back. Just when he’s doubting whether he’s being too paranoid after all, he hears Deadpool heave a sigh of relief and a “Phew!”

A quiet voice, noticeably different, answers him in a low murmur. Something about it is so painfully familiar—

“Bucky?” Steve gasps, and the voices in the room fall silent. He cracks the door open and peers in again, a fragile hope rising.

Deadpool, alone, looks back at him in feigned confusion. “What?”

A flush of shame heats under Steve’s collar. “Sorry,” he says, contrite, “I could have sworn I heard… sorry. I was just imagining things.” He closes the door and beeline towards Stark’s room.

“Seriously?” Deadpool’s muffled voice follows Steve, and Steve winces, assuming it’s directed at him. He just can’t help seeing Bucky out of the corner of his eye sometimes, wishing he weren’t so alone, out of place in the twenty-first century.

He’s got to stop these fanciful dreams. They keep bringing him down.

Well, nobody embodies the twenty-first century like Stark.

“Oh, it’s you,” Stark says upon seeing him. The lackluster greeting is mildly disheartening. 

“Yeah,” says Steve. “I—“ And that’s all he gets to say before Stark pouts and derails the entire conversation.

“I’ve been _waiting_ for you. Were you avoiding me? Well, don’t. _Why_ haven’t you moved out of your lame, lame apartment? I told you to go to Stark Tower, didn’t I? Although it’s Avengers Tower now— don’t tell anyone I told you that.” He winks and cuts off Steve’s stuttering response. “Your floor is _so_ much better than that dingy place you’ve been sleeping in.”

“ _Floor?_ I don’t need an entire _fl_ —“

“You’re certainly welcome. I can hire people to move your stuff. Hey Jarvis, get Cap’s stuff to the Tower ASAP, would you? Throw out all the furniture, it’s terrible. You’re welcome again, Cap, no need to gape at me.” Stark preens while Steve feels distinctly off-balance. “Bruce is already there, and so’s Thor. And Loki. And the super spies. That Strange guy and Riddle didn’t want their floors, but it’s okay, I repurposed one for laser tag and the other as a calming aquarium for Bruce!”

 _Aquarium_ , Steve mouths to himself as Stark barrels on, chattering about this and that and nothing at all. It bewilders Steve to the point that he loses track of what he’d been trying to say, if he’d been trying to say anything at all. So when Tony pauses, he picks another subject, one that’s been bothering him since the earlier encounter with Deadpool.

“Something weird happened in Harry’s hospital room today when I went by,” says Steve, and without any further prompting, Stark lights up.

“Let’s look at the security feeds!” he crows, producing a tablet out of nowhere. “I’ve been so bored, I _knew_ you were a good idea! C’mon over.”

Steve finally crosses the room and settles in the chair by Stark’s bed.

“Riddle has disabled the cameras around Harry’s room,” says the tablet in a smooth, male, British voice. Steve jumps. “There is one camera across the street that can see into part of Harry’s room through his window.”

“Whatever there is, load it up,” Stark demands impatiently. This close, Steve can smell the antiseptic clinging to Stark’s skin, and some saltier scent underneath. 

A grainy video, timestamped, fills the tablet’s screen; Steve squints to see something pixelated and shiny swing under the window, and then realizes that there’s a body attached to it.

“Oooh,” says Stark excitedly, vibrating. “This is fucking good. The good stuff. Oh my god, this is _gold_.”

“It can’t be,” Steve breathes. 

“Hush,” says Stark. “Lemme get into SHIELD.”

“Yes, please,” says Steve, hardly daring to believe his eyes. He can’t tear his eyes from the screen, because that’s a _metal_ arm, and with all the upheavals his life has had lately, this might not be outside of the realm of possibility.

Jarvis, the tablet’s voice, reports: “The Winter Soldier, former agent of HYDRA. Missing for about one year...” As Jarvis speaks, listing classifications, files pile up on the screen. “Possible match to James Buchanan Barnes—”

“Stop,” says Steve. Jarvis stops.

Stark twists to look at him. “What? What is it? You’re looking kind of pale, there— alcohol?” He produces a bottle of alcohol out of the same void from which he’d produced the tablet.

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve says. He takes the bottle anyway, uncaps it, and takes a swig. It’s uncomfortably warm, but still burns somewhat on the way down.

“So,” says Stark, “what’s up?” His fingers twitch towards the tablet, as if itching to continue with the search. “You wanna talk about it?” he offers, sounding like he’d rather listen to anything else. His eyes are a warm, liquid brown, framed by thick lashes. Quick and clever.

Steve looks at the bland, metal rail at Stark’s blanketed feet for a moment before standing up. “I’m going to go to Avengers Tower,” he says slowly, rising to his feet. “I’m going to take this with me. I’ll… see you when you get out, but right now I want to punch something and I’d rather it isn’t you.”

“Sure,” says Stark easily despite the curiosity shining in his eyes. “Say, he looks familiar. D’you know the guy or something?” They both know who he’s referring to.

“Or something,” says Steve, and clamps his mouth shut so he won’t spill his life story to Stark, who undoubtedly has been informed of it already.

He’s not sure if he’s happy or sad. His feelings are all tangled up. But this, in addition to poor Coulson, and _aliens_ , and having missed seventy years of his life and having lost his relevance, and, even the bananas… just, _everything_. His head hurts, and it’s supposed to be impossible for Steve to have headaches.

He desperately wants Harry’s counsel.

**G G G**

Agent Gopher follows Director Fury and Maria Hill on the way to Stark’s hospital bed, which— he’s still an _invalid_ and it should be impossible for one man to cause as much trouble as he does. Gopher, currently, is clutching a stack of paperwork that Stark has somehow managed to generate while _resting_ in his _hospital bed_. 

Okay, so it’s just that he’s pouring money into the clean-up efforts and it’s a mess, but still.

They pass a room that smells like coffee and Gopher longs for her break.

They pass a stressed Captain America, in civvies, and Gopher briefly worries but her bosses sweep right past him.

They pass a room from which raucous laughter emits amid loud sniffling. Gopher’s fairly sure that’s _Hunt’s_ voice— so it must be Harry Potter’s room, and those must be Harry Potter’s students. Gopher’s heard a lot about Harry Potter. She doesn’t know what to make of him, and she’s seen enough to conclude that she doesn’t really want to make anything of him.

Stark whines about being handed things. The bosses needle him until he lets Gopher put the paperwork on the stand beside his bed. 

Gopher wants her coffee right about now, please.

**T T T**

Thor is beside himself.

Every time he spots Loki, Loki slinks away. What are they, toddlers? He’d always thought Loki the mature, intelligent one. Even the miracle of Loki being alive cannot spare him Thor’s ire.

“Loki!” Thor bellows as Loki turns a corner, dodges an upset blonde man, and abandons all pretense of casual walking to sprint and escape. Loki darts into Harry Potter’s hospital room, smirks at Thor, and shuts the door. Thor must calm his bitter rage. To scream would be most uncouth, and merely distance Loki further. He knows this from experience.

“Loki,” he attempts, more gently this time, speaking to the beige paint of the door, trying not to beg and not knowing what else to try. “Please, hide not behind these wards. Do not be _cowardly_ —” Thor halts and starts again in a more mellow tone. Despite his best efforts, his voice cracks. “Are we not brothers? We were raised together, we played together, we fought together. Do you remember none of that? I do. I thought you _dead_.”

Loki cracks open the door and Thor swallows his next words, hoping his patience might prompt Loki to speak freely.

“Did you mourn?” Loki asks, the barest hint of spite in his voice.

“Yes.” Thor nearly cries with relief. “Yes. Of course I did.”

Loki eyes his crumpled expression. “Come in,” he says abruptly, and when Thor moves forward, he finds that the wards that had previously kept him out now welcome him. Loki closes the door, then beckons him towards two plastic chairs beside the bed. The bed upon which Harry Potter lays. Loki sits and waits for Thor to do the same before saying, “Your father. He did tell you my true parentage, did he not?”

“Yes,” says Thor. Loki does not believe him. “It changes nothing. Brother, Asgard is not the same without you. _Home_ is not the same without you.”

“It is your home, not mine,” says Loki, flatly.

“I can make my home anywhere yours is,” declares Thor, resolute. Loki _must_ believe him.

“Thor,” Loki sighs, glancing at the man lying in the hospital bed, “you always make these grand declarations you cannot guarantee to keep. You never change, do you?”

“You have changed, and so have I,” says Thor. “But you are right. My love for you shall never change, no matter your race. Your absence has pained me, Loki, and I daresay all of Asgard feels so as well.”

“Now you stretch the truth,” says Loki. “I do not need your love.”

“Still I would give it,” persists Thor.

Loki refuses to look at Thor. “Noble, at best. Empty reassurance, at worst. I _despise_ Asgard, do you know? There, I am forever in your shadow.”

“No,” Thor protests.

“But yes,” counters Loki. “Do not tell me that you _believed_ their paltry efforts at civility when I stood at your side.”

“No matter what you believe, I cannot change your mind. Know this, however: I know my own feelings better than you do, and I know Mother’s. We love you. We miss you. Mother has not seen you for so long and she has worried wrinkles into her brow. Please, I will not force you to stay in any capacity, but _visit_ at the very least,” pleads Thor.

Loki does not respond to this. Instead, he brightens, looking past Thor. “Stephen,” he says, his eyes alight, a lift at the corners of his lips, and stands. 

Thor stands also, not satisfied with the conversation and yet unwilling to deny Loki happier circumstance. The man who enters, Stephen, is quick of the mind, silver in two neat stripes at his temples, and wears a red cloak with energy clinging to it. He strides with the lightness of a mage-warrior and analyzes Thor with a cutting gaze.

“Stephen,” says Thor, testing the Midgardian name on his tongue, “it is nice to meet you. I am Thor, Loki’s brother.”

 _"Are_ you,” says Stephen, in such a way that Thor feels dissected.

Thor decides to be blunt, as he cannot match Loki in wit, and Stephen seems like-minded with Loki. “Yes, that is what I said,” Thor confirms, and holds out his hand to shake. Stephen’s hold is firm.

“Ah,” says Stephen, failing to acknowledge his rudeness. “Call me Doctor Strange, then. Are you finished borrowing Loki? I have need of his expertise.”

“We are quite done,” says Loki, relief evident in comparison to his previous agitation. He hurries after Doctor Strange and doesn’t look back.

Thor, at a loss, stares after them. Harry Potter’s peaceful expression offers him no explanation, nor consolation.

“Perhaps that was too heavy for the first conversation,” Thor admits to Harry Potter. “But I do not desire for our relationship to fester with old, unresolved wounds.” He bows his head.

Harry Potter does not so much as twitch, and Thor feels like the oaf that Loki always labels him as. “Of course, you cannot offer counsel. I am sorry for disturbing your rest,” Thor apologizes, then promptly feels even more buffoonish. Harry Potter cannot hear anything. Thor may as well be apologizing to a plant.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry drifts.

There had been a lot of blazing blue at some point. The blank space behind Harry’s eyelids swirls with colors to fill the sudden absence of blue. Harry doesn’t try to make sense of it or the noises that ring in his ears; he just… drifts. He doesn’t try to leave the ocean he drifts in, and he has an inkling that he couldn’t find the surface anyway, directionless as he is.

It is only now, with rest forced upon him, that he realizes how tired he’s gotten lately. So many things have happened— he’s on good terms with _Voldemort_ , who isn’t actually Voldemort anymore, and he’s in a world with magic different to everything he’s known and honest to Merlin _superheroes_ and _aliens_. He’s been so occupied with filling up his days to drown out the echoes of _light-heat-melting-help-Potter-please_ that he hasn’t slowed and processed anything.

Hermione would disapprove. _“Classic Harry behavior,_ ” she’d say, shaking her head, and when Ron agreed with her, she would turn right back around and lump him into the lecture too. Harry misses them. He misses a lot of people, but he misses them the most.

He wonders how Tom is doing. He thinks about James and Wade and Hurst and Martha and Natasha and Clint and Steve and Strange and Loki and his students and even Snape. He thinks about the destruction he’d executed for Doom, and wonders how many families might be missing a seat at the dinner table in the evening— if they even still have their dinner tables, or dinner, or even families at all. He dreads facing those who have lost; he wants to help but he’s unsure of his welcome; he doesn’t really want to wake up.

Harry misses butterbeer. Perhaps Snape will have figured out how to brew some? It is this thought, more than the others, that finally pulls Harry into wakefulness.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

_Something is missing. Tom has forgotten something vital._

_He spends long minutes wondering why there is no cereal in his bowl, contemplating his hand, which is stretched towards the milk carton, pausing as though waiting for something. Oh._

_He’s waiting for his hand to be swatted away._

_But… that’s off. Pain lances through his heart as he knows— Harry isn’t here. Harry’s in the muggle hospital, pale and fragile against the crisp, white sheets, heartbeat fluttering. He didn’t make tea for Harry this morning, didn’t manhandle Harry into his clothes, didn’t wrangle Harry’s hair into temporary submission. That’s what he’d forgotten._

_Tom’s fingers are trembling. Suddenly he is angry; he cannot allow this weakness. And— as if! As if he would allow_ Harry _, weak, emotional Harry, to dictate what he should or should not do!_

_He tips the milk into the bowl, filling it halfway. But he pauses again, this time with the cereal box hovering, tilted._

_He tries to pour the cereal. No matter where he aims it, none reaches the bowl. He’s making a mess and he can’t do it. He can’t. The bowl spills over, cracking, and the mugs of tea have cracked too; cracks slither through the ceiling and it’s the milk raining down on him through the spaces that's wetting his cheeks not_

_He needs—_ he needs—

“Harry,” Tom says bleakly, voice hoarse, staring at the ceiling. It’s a blank white one, which he had refused to let Harry paint in yellow; Tom wishes he’d given in now.

(If he’d had the heart to just off Harry right then and there, would Harry already be back and whole?)

Disgusting. He rolls out of bed and staggers to the kitchen, only realizing minutes later that he’s boiled too much water on instinct. Harry’s not here to drink five mugs of tea. Tom ignores the pang in his gut and vanishes the extra water.

Harry is supposed to wake up today, so Tom will take his time walking to SHIELD. No point in arriving long before just to— wait for hours next to the hospital bed. It would murder his productivity. 

(Not that walking slowly is any more productive. Perhaps he should have apparated. But then he’d get there early.)

New York’s clean-up is not going badly, at least. The sidewalks are mostly clear, aside from a few blocks cordoned off with caution tape, where piled Chitauri tech is being examined. The aliens’ bodies, aside from a few samples, have all been easily disposed of with fiendfyre.

It’s been a month since the invasion. An entire month of ~~Harry lying so still~~ coordinating with SHIELD to tie up loose ends. After Doom was sent back to Latveria, regrettably alive due to bloody _diplomatic immunity_ of all things, Tom had channeled his resources into tracking HYDRA, which remains frustratingly elusive.

(Tom wishes he could have tortured Doom more. Doom had captured Harry so _dishonorably_ , knocking him out with a fist in his moment of distraction— even Voldemort had respected Harry more than to do that.)

Harry is awake, sitting up in bed with both hands folded in his lap.

His eyes are a vibrant green behind new wire-rimmed glasses. A tension Tom hadn’t been aware of eases from his shoulders. He strides forward to touch Harry, who is reassuringly solid, and to adjust the pillows that Harry is slowly sliding down.

Harry touches his fingertips to Tom’s cheekbone, the movement endearing, his next words less so. “Tear tracks? You were crying? Why were you crying?”

 _Spilt milk_ , Tom thinks, because he will not admit to anything as undignified as _crying_ for such an infuriating idiot. He surreptitiously casts a face freshening charm, scowling.

“I saw that,” presses Harry, scowling back. “You look like rubbish. Stop hiding and let me help you.”

“You’re confined to the hospital bed,” begins Tom. He hurriedly pushes Harry down. “It’s fine, you’re awake! Stay!”

Stark enters on the last word and immediately guffaws. “No wonder he was so angry with you, if you treat him like Fido!”

“You were angry with me?” asks Tom.

“Of course that’s what you’re focusing on.” Harry rolls his eyes. “You can get off me now.” Tom straightens and looks at him expectantly. “Yes, well— not _angry_ , just… maybe it was entitled, but— I thought you’d be here when I woke up.” His voice shrinks. “It would have been nice, not to wake up alone…”

Tom cups the side of Harry's head, thumbing below Harry’s downcast eyes, gut curdling. “I took care of Doom. And I am tracking HYDRA. And the cleanup effort…”

Harry pulls out of Tom’s touch, alarmed. “Wait— _took care of_ Doom? What did you do to him?”

“Nothing he did not deserve,” Tom sneers. He relents at Harry’s intense concern. “A magical binding, so he cannot harm you again.”

“Your irises are _red_ , Tom, and Natasha says it’s been a _month_.”

“Fine. A few rounds of _crucio_ , and a blood-sealed, ritualized Unbreakable Vow, and some… other things.”

Tony whistles by the door. “Really put him through the wringer. You two catch up, then. I was gonna tell you all about your new floor in Stark Tower, complete the set, y’know, the Avengers, but I suppose since you’re busy…” He makes to leave.

“Wait, _floor?!_ ” Harry exclaims. Tony turns back, smug, but he’s interrupted.

The click of sharp heels on tile precedes the arrival of an irate, red headed woman. Harry can’t help but compare her to Ginny as he had Natasha; the same warmth curls about her, except more businesslike. Professional. Less sturdily built, more… pretty looking. “Tony,” she scolds, waving a folder about, “you still have ten pages to go! Tomorrow’s donation cannot go forward without your signature—”

Tony whines pitifully as he’s dragged away.

Steve appears a moment later. “Have you seen Tony?” he inquires, polite despite his harried countenance. “He left a, a—“

Harry doesn’t want to know, so he points a finger down the hallway Tony just went.

“Thanks!” Steve says, and dashes away.

Tom judges Harry’s attention successfully diverted from Doom’s entirely deserved torture. He clears his throat. “Would you like to catch up on what you missed? Or we can wait until after you’re home.”

 _"Home_ ,” says Harry, smiling softly. “That’s nice, but too long to wait. Tell me now. I still have a week before I’m released, y’know. How have you been?”

 _"You’re_ the one in the hospital bed,” says Tom, incredulously. At Harry’s pout, he concedes, “I’ve been perfectly fine.” He works his jaw for a moment, dithering on what to say. Harry glows beneath the fluorescent lights despite his unhealthy pallor. “I’ve been worried about you,” he says at last.

 _"Tom,_ ” squeaks Harry, blushing furiously, knowing that Tom doesn’t generally like to reveal vulnerabilities. That he’s saying this so candidly… perhaps Harry should get injured more often. Or maybe not. The dead taste in his mouth isn’t pleasant.

“You should know that I care for you by now, darling,” says Tom, his gaze darkening.

Harry pulls away slightly from Tom’s hands and changes the subject, patting the sheets next to him. “Sit down, Tom— that’s got to be uncomfortable— and tell me everything.”

“On the bed?” Tom eyes the narrow cot dubiously.

“There’s space,” Harry insists. There is space, but so little of it that Tom ends up pulling Harry onto his lap, careful not to jostle Harry too much. (Harry has no muggle tubes sticking into him because Snape brews the potions to the same effect, and Tom doesn’t like trusting muggle devices with Harry’s safety.) Harry fits nicely against Tom, just the same as they both remember. 

Death’s binding magic releases the last layer of debt from Tom. Preoccupied with the sensation of freedom, Tom has to be nudged to start speaking.

“Where’s Death?” he says, instead of launching into his explanation.

“Um, out,” says Harry. “Death came by earlier, for a bit— speaking of which, do you happen to have the cloak with you? I feel kind of weird without it.”

“Right. Here,” Tom says, rummaging in his robe-pocket and then embracing Harry to clip the triangle pendant to the other Hallows hanging over Harry’s chest. “I don’t like Death’s track record of leaving you to fend for yourself,” he frowns, even as he warms from Harry’s proximity.

“We’ve had this argument before,” says Harry. “Death can’t do anything about it. Now, stop delaying and tell me everything!”

Tom chuckles and relishes Harry’s shiver at the vibration. “Loki and Thor have returned to Asgard for the time being— they will be back within seven weeks, but Strange has been more insufferable than usual…” he begins, and continues with detailing Doom’s light punishment, New York’s clean-up effort, and the newly-monikered Avengers. Harry, predictably, inquires after every budding relationship that he’s missed and focuses on the villains that have been cropping up more than the funding complications for the clean-up effort.

“That’s more your stuff,” says Harry, and Tom quite agrees. It is beyond him how disastrous Harry still is with paperwork, even after working with Draco for decades— actually, that’s likely precisely why. Draco, fastidious Draco, would never allow Harry to bumble around and mess up his paperwork.

Tom talks himself hoarse. He expects another question from Harry, but it never comes; Harry only sniffles and remains a dead weight on Tom.

Oh. He’s asleep. He protests, though, with a disgruntled noise, when Tom shifts to leave. Tom eases them both into a more comfortable position, laying down, and trusts his guard outside the door to prevent anyone from entering without cause.

(Fenrir, disturbed by the quiet, checks in the room— just in case. His Lord is… and Harry… he quickly backs out and shuts the door. He _really_ doesn’t want to know.)

**Hp Hp Hp**

When Harry is let out of the hospital, the first thing he does, after savoring the air finally free of antiseptic, is wobble and fall over.

Tom catches him. Harry melts into the hold for a moment, then pushes Tom away. “I’m going to walk,” he says stubbornly.

“Are you sure?” Tom asks. “Aren’t you still sore from yesterday’s physical therapy? You shouldn’t have pushed yourself so hard. I can carry you—”

“You’re literally more upset about me than I am,” Harry laughs.

 _"S_ _omeone_ has to worry,” says Tom. “Fine. See if I help you the next time you stumble.” Despite this threat, Tom catches Harry the next time. And the next. 

Fenrir follows sedately behind and hums loudly in his head so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the surreality of his Lord acting strange. It’s none of his business.

The Avengers Tower is just a few blocks away, so Harry had insisted on walking. Halfway there, Tom ends up carrying him anyway, because his muscles fail beneath him.

“Oh, that’s neat,” says Harry, taking in the restored Tower with the gleaming ‘A’ at the top. “Are we a part of the Avengers now? Who exactly is part of the group?”

“We’re honorary members, kind of like consultants,” Tom explains, entering the lobby, which gleams as much as the tower’s exterior. “I figured you would not want to be in the public eye as much as… Before.” Aw, how considerate of Tom. “The official members are Stark, Rogers, Romanoff, Barton, Banner, Thor, and Loki. We are honorary, as is Strange.”

“So we’re going to live in the Tower now?”

“Don’t make that face. It is up to you. Stark would not be swayed against furnishing a floor for us.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Harry says into Tom’s chest. “I wouldn’t leave James behind. How are Hurst and Martha? And why doesn’t Deadpool have a floor?”

“Deadpool begged,” Tom snorts. “You can guess how that turned out. SHIELD refuses to add him to the Avengers’ roster. Hurst and Martha are fine; James is staying with them in one of the shelters.”

By now they have crossed the lobby. Tom steps into a sleek elevator, which nobody else uses despite the other elevators becoming crowded. The double doors hiss quietly as they shut.

“Good afternoon, Agent Potter and Mr. Riddle,” a voice greets from the ceiling. Harry startles and Tom tightens his grip. “My name is Jarvis. How may I assist you today?”

“Please call me Harry, Jarvis— it’s nice to meet you,” Harry replies automatically, then blinks. “Where _are_ you?”

Tom rolls his eyes as Jarvis says, “I am unable to disclose my location.”

“Oh, so you’re super secret? Okay.”

“I’m afraid not, Harry,” says Jarvis. “I am a multi-functional software who employs a highly advanced user interface with holographic peripherals and voice input. I communicate with the user via speech audio, holographic displays and conventional LCD monitors.”

“What?”

“He’s being difficult,” Tom tells Harry. “He holds a grudge against you and I for some imagined slight, an incident I barely remember. Stark visited us and we disabled Jarvis; Jarvis is just an A.I.” At Harry’s blank look, Tom clarifies. “A.I. stands for artificial intelligence.”

“Er— what’s that?”

Tom sighs. “It is like a portrait, made by muggles with muggle technology, and not necessarily based upon the imprint of a magical being.”

“Wow,” says Harry, “that’s amazing. The muggles of this world are quite genius, don’t you think?”

“My creator _is_ a genius,” says Jarvis, sounding proud now and not at all grudge-holding. Suddenly his voice is much less frosty. “Would you like to input your destination?”

“The Avengers’ communal floor, please,” Harry says, and the elevator rises upward so smoothly that Harry can barely feel it moving. 

“Huh,” Tom says, looking down at Harry in his arms with an indefinable expression.

“Is there something on my face?” Harry wriggles to be put down so he can see his reflection in the elevator’s walls.

“Your face is pretty, as always,” says Tom, chuckling, the strange moment gone. Harry blushes, unsure of how he’s supposed to take the uncharacteristic compliment, and is saved from responding by a _ding!_ “We’re here. Come, didn’t you want to check the wards we put up?”

After winning an argument about whether to use seven or three points— three, obviously— Harry has to wonder, “Where _is_ everyone?”

“Cleanup, most likely,” Tom says, “or fighting another grassroots villain.” 

Out of a floor-to-ceiling row of windows, they can see tiny people and construction machines working on the city’s destruction. Several blocks away, a huge green figure lifts a piece of rubble with an inaudible roar. Harry can vaguely make out a group of tiny people cheering for the Hulk.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Stop that,” Tom says, his jaw clenching. “It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is,” says Harry, matter-of-fact. “Don’t say that Doom was controlling me or some shite like that. In the end, if I allow myself to be used as a weapon, I’m still the one who pulled the trigger. I got the Chitauri to follow Doom’s plan— without me there wouldn’t be as much destruction. If I allow myself to be controlled like this, how can I call myself a good Master of Death?”

“Are you done?”

“Yeah,” Harry says weakly.

“I know that you are stubborn and that you will not listen to me right now,” Tom says, “and believe me, I _will_ deliver my arguments later. But just for now: you are still the Master of Death, are you not?”

“Yes, but that doesn't _mean_ anything, Tom, the title can’t be taken back once it’s given.”

“Then Death must have searched thoroughly for one who is worthy before making the decision. Trust in Death’s judgement, if not your own. Death chose you. No matter what you do, Death chose you, so you must have some base worthiness that Death judged would not change, no matter what you may be forced to do.”

Harry can’t muster up the energy to protest. Instead, he changes the subject. “I’m going to make dinner for everyone, and then we’re going to go eat with James and Wade and Hurst and Martha, and tomorrow I’m going down there to help. Okay?”

“You’re going to need large servings,” Tom says, thankfully going along with it. “I’ll help.”

“Thanks, Tom, you’re the best,” Harry says, beaming, and turns away and misses the expression that crosses Tom’s face. “Hey, did Snape figure out how to make butterbeer yet? Can he bring some? I’ve been craving it lately…”

**Ts Ts Ts**

“Sir,” Jarvis starts tentatively when Tony is flying home.

The last time Jarvis sounded tentative, Tony had an entire chunk of his memory tampered with. He sets the Mark VI to autopilot. He’s been using it for cleanup so he doesn’t ruin his newer, more upgraded suits; better save those for fights, because he has less and less time for suit repairs these days when he could just make a better one.

“Lay it on me, Jarv,” Tony says, hoping his confidence will help Jarvis’ nerves.

A beat of silence. Tony lands on his tower and grows more and more concerned while the gauntlets spin around him to disassemble his suit.

“Please eat your vegetables this time,” Jarvis says finally in the elevator, cryptic, but Tony doesn’t have to ask for clarification; upon his entrance to the Avenger’s communal room, he is greeted jovially by a drunk Thor. A _drunk_ Thor, which shouldn’t be possible…

“Hey, Stark!” Rogers yells, a little too loud, also drunk and flushed in the face. 

“Firewhiskey,” Clint explains, brandishing a red glass bottle. “And dinner. Harry was here earlier— you just missed him.”

Tony decides not to question. He does want to get drunk. Maybe it’ll help the insomnia that’s clung to him ever since the Chitauri invasion. “Gimme that,” he says, and swipes the bottle off Clint before Clint can hand it to him.

**Cb Cb Cb**

Clint gets on well with most of the new team. Some of them, like Steve and Harry and Natasha, he already trusts. Clint’s a pretty easy going guy, or at least that’s what he likes to think of himself, so he’s okay with most everyone else, too. 

There are a few exceptions to this rule. Loki is such a slippery fellow that Clint can’t possibly trust him in any capacity, no matter what Thor insists, and Strange is both aloof and friendly with Loki. And Riddle.

Clint has never liked Riddle. He wouldn’t say that he’s a stellar judge of character, but he has this sort of instinct. Riddle is suave, charming— and he gives Clint the heebie-jeebies. It’s feeling of something sinister crawling up Clint’s neck whenever Riddle thinks he isn’t being watched, for all that his expression is usually pleasant enough.

Clint had joked before about Harry and Riddle’s relationship, but there’s _something_ going on there, and it’s bothering Clint. He doesn’t have any concrete evidence to point to. It’s just a general— instinct, as he said. Something cold about how he can manipulate like nobody’s business; when Natasha manipulates, she has an element of _emotion_ in her that Riddle lacks. Riddle just doesn’t seem to _care_. 

The only person he ever breaks his mask for is Harry.

He’s always touching. Always so eager to help, caring, protective. From a broader perspective it would be adorable, like Riddle’s a puppy fetching sticks for Harry, ridiculous and sappy like that. 

But sometimes Riddle will look at Harry with something hungry in his eyes. Fixated. That’s what Clint is concerned about. Harry _knows_ , Clint is sure of it— Harry had admitted to them, a long time ago, that Riddle was “basically a psychopath.” And the two have some sort of grim history.

So what is going on? Clint can’t tell what their relationship is, and he’s worried about it. 

There’s an incident that shows Clint that he may worry, but Harry is plenty capable of handling Riddle by himself. It’s why he abandons his share of Pop-Tarts one Friday morning.

He’d been on his way to the kitchen, because whenever he didn’t get there early, Thor would have made his share and then the sentient toaster would refuse to make any more. Blatant favoritism, characteristic of Stark’s creations.

Anyway. On his usual route in the Avengers Tower’s extensive network of air vents, he hears voices below. Now, this would not be an uncommon occurrence, except the voices are Harry and Riddle’s. They don’t live in the Tower, and lately, both have been beyond busy with cleanup and with SHIELD assignments, so it’s a rarity that they would be here together on a weekday.

“You can’t keep me in _captivity_ , Tom!” Harry hisses, each syllable bitten off violently, and Clint’s interest is completely hooked.

“Your safety—”

“Is not going to be risked by a _gift-shopping_ trip!”

“Without me!” Here, Riddle sounds so offended that Clint winces.

“Yes! _Without_ you! Would you rather come with and ruin the surprise—“

 _"Yes!_ You reckless Gryffindor, no surprise is worth your safety—“

“This isn’t about a childish _surprise!_ ” Harry’s yell shocks Riddle into silence. “It’s not about some small thing— how foolish do you think I am? It’s about the, the _controlling_ , Tom. I’ve been indulging you because I know you need the security of knowing where your _things_ are, but if you need to monitor and regulate my every _breath_ , then you’re just like _Dumbledore_ was!”

Riddle’s low response is glacial. “I am _nothing_ like _him_.”

“Then don’t _act_ like you are!”

“I am _not!_ ”

“You are!”

“I’m not doing this with you,” Riddle says.

“Yes, you are,” says Harry stubbornly. “You’re not my minder. I’m my own person, and I only ever listen to you because I _value_ your opinion. If I really didn’t want you to be okay with this, then I would just have Death hold you while I go. I’m only telling you where I’m going to be to give you some peace of mind, not so you can approve or disapprove of what I want to do!”

Riddle seems to finally realize that he’s crossed a line with whatever demand he’s made this time— probably that Harry doesn’t leave his sight. His next words are measured, contrite. “I… I see your point. But you must understand— I will have no peace of mind when you are gone, no matter whether you told me beforehand or not.”

“Oh, Tom,” Harry sighs, and there’s a tiny, wet sniffle and a “C’mere.” Fabric rustles.

That evening, Riddle paces agitatedly around the communal floor. His pleasant demeanor is nowhere to be found.

So as Clint passes him on the way to get seconds— Harry’s cooking is the best and Clint will fight anybody who claims otherwise— he tries to help. Granted, it’s half-hearted because Riddle still scares him, but the thought is there.

“He’ll be back before you know it,” he says, and pats Riddle awkwardly on the shoulder. “Chill, bro.”

Riddle looks at the spot of contact on his shoulder as if sterilizing it with the force of his distaste. Who knows— with magic, it might be possible. Clint is already chowing down on his spaghetti bolognese when Riddle belatedly responds, “I cannot.”

“Can’t what?” asks Clint, having forgotten his question.

“I cannot _chill_ ,” says Riddle, the last word unfamiliar on his tongue. He also mutters, “I have never been _bro_ -ed before,” but Clint doesn’t think he was supposed to hear that.

“You wanna talk about it?” Clint says through his mouthful. Riddle surveys him once, head to toe, and Clint defiantly refuses to wipe at the corner of his mouth where he can feel tomato sauce.

“No,” says Riddle, his tone heavily implying that Clint also has spaghetti on his nose.

“He’s gonna be back in an hour,” Steve soothes distractedly from the couch, where Bruce and Tony are interlocked in an intense game of Super Smash Bros. Natasha flips over the couch to jump-scare them; the temporary silence is broken by shrieks and cries of foul play.

The noise almost covers Riddle’s next utterance. “I hate this utterly.” Clint glances up from his food and shovels another forkful into his mouth. Riddle’s pacing increases in speed as he continues. “I hate this mess. I hate the Potter luck. I hate that I— care for such an _imbecile_.”

“It’s not a mess,” Clint says, chewing on a savory chunk of meatball. “Harry’s just going shopping.”

 _"I'_ _m_ a mess,” Riddle admits, and he suddenly seems more human than he has ever been. Then he starts hissing to himself and the moment is over. Maybe it’s just that his features are too handsome to be real. Not that Clint’s interested— he’s perfectly fine without a magical madman as his significant other, thanks.

The Super Smash Bros. argument is eventually resolved when Thor and Loki arrive, and Thor accidentally breaks the TV screen with Mjolnir. Loki laughs himself sick and Steve restrains Tony from marching straight into the radius of the broken glass shards to “fix it, I can do it!” Natasha facepalms discreetly, which shouldn’t be possible. She pulls it off.

That’s the scene Harry walks in on: Clint stuffing his face, Riddle agitated, and the rest of them picking sides for and against bodily harm. Although Stark is physically the weakest out of all of them when he’s out of his suit, he manages to overpower everybody with sheer obnoxious noise, less loud yet more piercing than Thor’s battle roars.

“Ah, feels like family,” comments Harry, beaming. Riddle immediately sticks to him and cannot be pried off, like a living incarnation of Budapest’s mystery glue. Nat shares the commiseration with Clint.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint catches Tony sharing a meaningful look with Steve and then nodding at Harry; Steve shakes his head. When Clint glances over, curious, he thinks that he must have imagined it.

The fight ends when Bruce threatens to Hulk out and Tony complains about the potential damages. The night ends with firewhiskey and butterbeer. Clint can’t regret it the next day because he doesn’t remember what he should regret. Then Jarvis helpfully shows them videos at maximum volume during breakfast. 

Clint regrets.

“We should help them,” Harry says to Riddle, somehow not hungover despite waking up with everybody else in the communal floor.

Riddle smirks. “No. Let them suffer.” 

Evil, evil man.

It’s only mid-morning, and the Avengers— minus Tony and Bruce, who have disappeared into R&D— lounge around the place in various, sedate states of fullness. With Clint’s lingering headache and sated, mellow mood, the next words slip out of his mouth casually.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m the weak link,” he says, and doesn’t have the time to realize what he said before Riddle responds.

“No,” says Riddle, “You have common sense. None of us do. The one we really need to worry for is Harry.”

That’s just your obsession speaking, Clint thinks, but then Harry looks up from where he’s been frowning at the toaster’s buttons idiotically and says, “What? I’m smart!”

“How do you start the timer, then?” challenges Riddle.

“... That knowledge is beneath me,” Harry says, with suppressed laughter. He fiddles with the lever on the toaster’s side. “This? It has to be this.”

Riddle pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Even Thor can operate the toaster,” he says exasperatedly. “He has less knowledge of muggle workings than you, and yet he makes Pop-Tarts every few hours.”

“We didn’t have this back in my day, okay?” Harry says defensively. Thor lumbers over and pets the toaster while praising it with a low, rumbly voice, and a button helpfully labeled _TIMER_ appears with a series of clicks. “Whoa,” Harry breathes, the exhalation making him sound young, and it occurs to Clint… 

“That,” he says, a little more loudly than he’d intended, and his brain gives a dull throb. “What’s your age, anyway? Fury said you were older than Steve…”

“No way you’re older than thirty at the _most_ ,” Steve exclaims, at the same time that Loki drawls, “It's rude to ask a lady her age.”

“I’m not a lady,” Harry says.

(“I’m glad you’re not,” Riddle says, again under his breath, and Clint fights not to reveal that his tailord, sensitive hearing aids are picking up things that he’s really not sure he wants to know.)

“Then tell us, I’m dying of curiosity,” Clint prompts.

Harry makes a considering noise. “Maths…”

“Oh, for the sake of Merlin,” Riddle says. “You were seventeen when you killed me the last time. Then three decades active on the Auror Force, four years at Hogwarts— that’s fifty-one. Forty-six years working with Malfoy before I left King’s Cross, so that’s ninety-seven plus the two years here that I’ve seen you for. When did the bombings start?”

“I dunno the year,” Harry says. “Draco did our paperwork. But Ron’s first great-grandson just conceived his first kid.”

“He waited that long?” 

“Not all of the Weasleys are _rabbits_ , Tom.”

“Hm. I’d rather not be presumptuous with the dates. Does it really matter, after a hundred?” Riddle muses.

“Dumbledore still celebrated his birthday.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t count; his brother Aberforth fucked a goat at eighty and then again at a hundred-ten— after being caught the first time.”

“Tom! That’s a rumor at best!”

Clint has to interject. “Somebody fucked a goat?”

He’s treated to a long and sordid tale of the event that spirals into a contest to see who can recount the wildest stories. Loki has some great ones. Clint feels that he’s laughed so heartily that he can skip his ab workout for the day. He ends up doing it, of course; Natasha asks him sweetly if he wants to disappoint Harry.

At night he suddenly remembers _Sometimes I feel like I’m the weak link._ Somehow, Riddle’s reassurance does make him feel better— perhaps because the man is so intimidating and sparse with the honest praise.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

_Harry is choking. Tom desperately pries the hands off of Harry’s throat, except they blur and the hands choking Harry are_ his _hands. He holds Harry’s limp body against his own— no heartbeat, but it’s fine, it has to be fine, Harry is coming back. The Hallows pendant crumbles into fine dust at his touch—_ his _touch, his blackened, rotten hands— Harry is gone,_ gone, gonegonegonegone and his eyes are vacant blueblueblueblue

A gasp. Tom realizes it’s his. His head pounds and he makes up his mind, navigates through the dark to Harry’s room for the third time in as many days. Ever since Harry— Harry had—

Tom hates, _hates_ this weakness.

He slides under the covers and presses himself to Harry’s back. Harry stirs, then settles as Tom tightens his grip.

“Tom,” sighs Harry. Tom freezes, caught. Harry had been good-natured about it the past few times, but he’d still been mostly asleep then— and at some point Tom has grown to care what Harry thinks of him. Harry brings Tom’s hand up against his vulnerable neck, and Tom’s breathing quickens for a moment before he feels Harry’s pulse. He shifts his arm down to Harry’s waist as soon as possible without seeming hasty.

Harry tangles their fingers together and snuggles back into Tom. The show of trust is sweet; sweeter is relief Tom finally finds when he catches a brief sliver of unmistakable green. Tom scoots downwards a bit and moves Harry’s elbows so he can bury his nose in Harry’s hair and curl around Harry’s smaller body comfortably.

He probably will not fall asleep again, though having Harry safe, here, warm— it’s enough. Harry’s breathing evens out. Eventually, despite his initial misgivings, Tom’s does as well.

He wakes with a crick in his neck. Harry’s features are relaxed and sweet, and he smiles faintly as he dreams. Tom hovers above Harry for a beat, unable to help drinking this sight in, then tears himself away to roll out of bed and stand stiffly. 

This little problem has been… growing. He should say, _large_ problem, because he calls it as he sees it. False modesty never suits anyone.

He carefully avoids jostling it too much while he steps into the shower and turns the water as cold as it will go, sighs in relief as the icy shock kills his burgeoning morning wood. Ever since he’d realized how— how _satisfying_ Harry’s slim hips feel, fitting perfectly in his hands; how tantalizing Harry’s dark lashes are as they brush delicately against soft, rosy cheeks; how pleasingly Harry’s magic always, always reaches out to his own; how striking the contrast is between Harry’s wild, coal black hair and green, green irises... 

Merlin. He cannot help himself. It is torture and he cannot stop _touching_.

Tom finds this— disturbing. Anything that usurps his control is disturbing. He almost misses Voldemort’s resurrected body, in which he’d never dealt with this utter inconvenience.

 _Harry is worth it_ , he reminds himself. Sometimes he has to do that, when Harry is being particularly frustrating.

_Harry will be worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Barf: there is barfing at some point
> 
> Extras:  
> * sometimes i look over the future of this and i think about what i’ve done  
> * worry not, Steve hasn't lost his pocket constitutions-- if you care about that  
> * shoutout to [lycxris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycxris/pseuds/Lycxris) for your support and heart memes <3
> 
> Up Next:  
> Harry: are you sure you just did what you did  
> Tom: Yes.  
> Harry: i mean, absolutely sure— mmphf—


End file.
